


Shatter

by Sakuri



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: Mirror Universe
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, Mirror!verse - Freeform, Slow Burn, Space Pirates, WIP, long!fic, more like the moral journey of the 'bad guys', not completely evil, spirk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 91,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sakuri/pseuds/Sakuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Nero had crashed through into the mirror universe instead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, first thing first, I should warn that this story will probably have quite a few dark themes throughout, including torture, murder, and possible sexual assault. I’ll try to warn for individual chapters. 
> 
> Secondly, this is a reboot of the mirror ‘verse. I realise that to begin with, characters aren’t yet their cruel, cold selves we see in TOS ‘Mirror Mirror’. The point of this was that I wanted to look at some of the ways they might get there. 
> 
> Thirdly, reviews and responses are always appreciated. Enjoy.

**Stardate 2248.319.**

**Tarsus IV.**

**Alpha Colony.**

 

Jim Kirk hurtled through the undergrowth, desperately trying to make as little noise as possible and maintain the breakneck pace. Already his side blazed with pain and his lungs dragged uselessly at the frigid air. His feet kept missing their mark, sliding in the dirt so that he almost fell headlong into damp bracken. Branches whipped past his face, leaving fresh scratches to add to the black eye and split lip he already sported. He hadn’t been running for long, but already he knew he wasn’t going to make it much further.

There was a thicket of trees ahead, and it took almost his last reserves of energy to stumble towards them. He fell against one and sank to his knees behind it, holding his forearm up over his mouth to muffle the rasp of his laboured breathing in the icy morning silence. Black spots danced in his vision, and for a moment he was terrified of losing consciousness. Ears straining for sounds of pursuit, he slid the stolen knife from his boot and clutched it ready.

He was fifteen and starving and half-feral.

A good ten minutes passed before he dared move again. His breathing slowly returned to normal and the threat of passing out receded, but the agonising empty clench of his stomach was going nowhere. He let himself fall back onto his ass in the dirt, curling forward to rest his head against his knees. That had been too close, too big a group. Too much of a risk that they could have caught and killed him for the precious parcel he’d stolen out from under them. But he hadn’t eaten anything in going on three days now, and he thought he might have given up and died soon anyway if he hadn’t risked it all.

He scrambled for the cloth-wrapped parcel tucked into his shirt, laying it out on the ground and peeling back the dirty fabric. It contained a single strip of salted, dried meat, a withered piece of unidentified fruit and a chunk of stale bread old enough to have been baked before the crop-rot spread planet wide.

It felt like a feast.

There were tears in his eyes as he tore into the hardened bread, but he swiped them away angrily and concentrated on chewing instead. It was tough enough to make his jaw ache, but he relished the sensation. The fruit was bitter and unpleasant, but as far as he could tell hadn’t been infected and that made it more than good enough. He hacked the meat in half with his knife and stuffed one piece into his mouth, swallowing too fast and nearly choking himself.

When he was done, a third of the bread, the fruit core, and half the meat remained. His stomach cramped demandingly as he regarded what was left, but he knew better than to try and eat it all at once. He’d seen others, usually the younger ones, cram down too much too fast only for their shrunken stomachs to reject it all. He couldn’t afford to waste a mouthful, given that he had no idea when he’d come across so good a haul again. Reluctantly, he re-wrapped the parcel and stuffed it back down his shirt-front. Then he rose stiffly to his feet, listening again for movement. There was nothing. Even the sounds of birds and insects had finally ceased at some point during the last week.

Tarsus was dying, the entire colony with it.

He started walking, not particularly caring in which direction as long as he kept away from the main colony site to the east. It would have been safer to get further from it, deeper into the forest where there were fewer patrols and groups of fellow scavengers. But that also meant even less access to food with no one to steal from, and no way of knowing when - if - the Imperial relief ships ever arrived. So for three weeks now he’d circled round and round, stalking and sneaking his way from hiding place to hiding place.

It had been the Orion refugees’ doing. That had been the popular theory back at the colony before he’d left. Some virulent xeno disease they’d brought with them which spread like wildfire, infecting every bit of vegetation like a plague. There’d been rioting, calls for quarantine and deportation, but it had already been too late by then. The crops were dead, the livestock starving, and not nearly enough food reserves left to support the whole population. The first wave of executions had taken place without warning. He could still remember the burned meat smell of phaser fire, the screaming as Kodos’ militia stormed through the colony, the panic as people tried to run in every direction at once.

George Kirk had been among the first to die, targeted as a potential figure of authority who might pose a threat to the self-proclaimed new governor. Some Kodos loyalist lucky enough to pass the genetics test had come into their home and shot him point-blank in the head. Jim had been hiding in the back room at the time, unnoticed.

He shied from the memory, shaking his head to clear it. Now was not the time.

He needed to find a place secure enough to spend the night. He’d passed through this area of forest before, maybe a week ago, and he thought he could remember a rock outcrop up ahead that might provide enough shelter from the elements and a decent hiding spot. He changed direction a little, moving purposefully now. But he’d gone no more than a few steps when he heard it.

A twig snapped in the bushes to his left. Instantly, the knife was in his hand again, and he whirled around to face the source of the sound.

The girl looked like an apparition, caught frozen stepping from the foliage. The dress she’d been wearing was shredded. Dark eyes were wide and scared in her face, darting between Jim and the knife he held out in threat before him. Her breath came in short, sharp puffs of mist and her dirt-smudged cheeks made her look ghostly.

Jim clenched his jaw, furious with himself for letting someone walk right up without noticing. While she didn’t exactly look much of a threat, a couple of inches taller than him but frail and waifish, it could just as easily have been one of Kodos’ militia hunters.

He flashed a grin. “Well this is awkward. Tell you what, you keep walking, I keep walking, pretend we never saw a thing. Sound good?” Friendly though his tone was, he kept the knife held steadily between them.

The girl didn’t respond for long seconds, staring at him. At last she blinked listlessly. “Do... Do you have food?”

“No,” he lied. “No one does these days. You might have noticed.”

“Oh.” She looked at the ground for a while, then at the sky, then back to Jim. “Can I stay with you?”

He frowned, taken aback. “Uhm. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Sorry.” He’d tried partnering up when things had first started going to hell, thinking it safer to have someone watching his back out here in the wilderness. The fucker had taken Jim’s share of the food while he slept and ran. “Look, I’ve got to go -”

He tried to circle round her, but her eyes instantly flew wide in alarm and she darted forward. “No wait, don’t leave!”

He hissed frantically. “Shut _up_! Keep your voice down!”

Her hands fluttered up to her mouth. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave. I need food. Do you have any?”

“I said no.” He backed up, concerned by the feverish shine of her eyes. This was a mistake. He should have turned and fled without a word the moment he saw her.

“I won’t be any trouble. I’ll keep quiet, I promise.”

“Not gonna happen, sorry.” He sidestepped a few more paces, scanning the area for his escape route. Running was definitely the better part of valour here. He was just making ready to bolt when a sound that chilled his blood drifted through the air.

Murmuring voices and rustling vegetation behind him, getting closer.

“Fuck.” He hadn’t actually lost them, then.

The girl’s attention had drifted away from him and towards the approaching voices. “Is that... people? Do you think they have food?”

“They won’t take you in, trust me,” Jim warned, already starting to creep quickly away.

She took a few clumsy steps after him, then stopped. “They might. Are they after you?”

“Yes, and they will _kill_ us both if they find us. You need to run.” He turned a last harried glance over his shoulder to make sure she got the message, just in time to see her open her mouth and start screaming.

“HE’S HERE! HE’S RIGHT HERE, I FOUND HIM!”

For a crucial second, Jim could only stare, struck dumb by a sense of unreasonable betrayal. Then he was flying towards her, enraged. “Shut the  _fuck_ up, what the fuck are you _doing_?!”

She pushed him away and continued to scream. “HE’S HERE! I GOT HIM, I FOUND HIM!” Then, whispering, “I’m so sorry. But they’ll give me food.”

He wasn’t sure how it happened, afterwards, only that he’d needed to make her be quiet, needed to stop her following him, and then suddenly he was pressed up against her and she was gasping in his ear and the knife was in her stomach. She blinked in that awful listless way, and coughed. Blood splattered across his face and gushed out over his hand.

He stepped back. She crumpled into the dirt without much of a sound at all. The voices were louder now, almost upon him, spreading out like hunting predators.

Jim turned and resumed his desperate flight for survival.

 

* * *

 

 

**Stardate 2251.006.**

**Juvenile Care Facility space station.**

**Coordinates: 23-17-46-11.**

 

Spock folded the last of his clothing and placed it carefully inside the standard issue bag they had given him that morning. It now contained a shuttle ticket viable for the next two weeks, a PADD outdated by several years, Terran style black slacks and a white shirt. Everything else he owned in the world he currently wore on his back. Zipping the bag closed, he settled the strap securely over his shoulder and cast one last observation around the room where he had resided for the first twenty one years of his life.

A single round window of triple-strength plastite showed a view of empty space and little else. Three beds occupied most of the available floor space. His was the one at the end, where he could sleep with his back to the wall. All three had been made up with military precision, and there was neither mess nor decoration to indicate this was this living space of a trio of testosterone-fuelled males. He imagined it was an arrangement his Vulcan father might have approved of, had he ever had cause to inspect the place.

Twenty one whole years wasted in this room, locked in with Terran adolescents whose dislike and distrust were entirely mutual, until the long awaited day he was no longer considered a minor by Vulcan standards. He felt the old familiar anger rise up in him at that thought, his fist gripping the bag strap too tightly. Had he been born fully Terran, he would have been released three years ago at a minimum. But then, had he been born fully Terran, he would not have been relegated to this refuge of the unwanted in the first place.

Spock had been age ten, the year Romulan rebels finally won a victory in repelling Starfleet forces from their system. It had been all over the news broadcasts for months, alien faces glaring from plasma screens like the personification of heathen evil. With their pointed ears and upswept brows, they’d looked Vulcan.

Spock had been aware of his own xenobiological differences before then, but the incident had seemed to trigger a conscious realisation in his Terran peers. They’d actively withdrawn from him, become hostile and cruel. For weeks it had escalated beyond all reason, until violence had broken out when one of the children had pulled the point of his ear.

In turn, Spock had broken one boy’s arm and fractured the orbital socket of another.

He’d nearly lost his place at the facility, his alien nature deemed too volatile, too vicious to be permitted around vulnerable Terran youths. Ultimately, however, he had been permitted to stay under the condition he undertake strict Vulcan practices of self-control. Instructional holo-vids on meditation, emotional repression and Vulcan physiology had become integral cornerstones of his schooling - and while their rate of success was open to debate, the incident had never been repeated.

For the most part, Spock had learned to endure torment without response. It was the simplest course of action.

Releasing emotion on an exhale, just as the self-aid holovids had instructed him, he lifted his head and turned to exit the room.

Another boy barred the doorway.

Spock’s shoulders lifted defensively before he could control the reaction. His first instinct was to drop his bag and free his hands, but he was loathe, on this last occasion, to admit to the weakness of fear. So instead he raised his chin and tried to calculate how best to extract himself from the situation.

The Terran boy, known as Smiles among their peers, lived up to the moniker by grinning nastily. “So Halfbreed, finally getting out of here, huh?”

Spock ignored the comment with an ease born of practice. His gaze flickered past Smiles’ shoulder, but he could see none of the other’s usual companions.

“All Vulcans need to be coddled so long, or just you?”

“I have only today become a legal adult -”

“There’s something not fair about that,” the Terran insisted, suddenly striding into Spock’s room. “We get kicked out of here when we’re barely old enough to pick our own noses, but _you_ get the special treatment, _you_ get to keep enjoying the free hospitality until you’re practically old and grey. What the fuck is _that_ about?”

In a manner specifically designed to infuriate, Spock quirked an eyebrow. “Evidently, we have differing definitions of ‘hospitality’.”

Smiles’ face instantly crumpled into a grimace of rage, and with no more warning than that he was looming forward. His fist struck Spock’s cheekbone hard enough to send him stumbling backwards. Though only seventeen, he was taller than the Vulcan and fully accustomed to emerging victor from any encounter between them. But this was not the five-on-one beating which usually took place. Spock had no idea why the Terran boy had come alone this time, but he was gratified.

He let his bag slide from his shoulder and raised his fists. Smiles ducked towards him, aiming for a low blow, so Spock reached out and grabbed him as he came, pulling him closer and slamming his knee up into the other boy’s stomach. He stepped back then, channelling calm, hoping that would be an end to the matter.

Smiles retched for a few seconds, bent double at the waist. He groaned and staggered until he could brace himself against one of the bedside tables, and Spock began to wonder if he’d inadvertently ruptured something. Then the Terran boy’s hand closed over the round glowlight on the table and he was up and hurling it at Spock’s head.

Spock ducked away, flinching. It was enough of a distraction to let Smiles crash into him unobstructed, slamming the Vulcan back against the wall. His forearm jammed up under Spock’s jaw to keep him in place while his other hand pummelled the Vulcan’s unprotected midriff, each blow punctuated by hissing vitriol.

“You alien - fucking - _freak_! Should have - died at - birth, Halfbreed! Should have -”

Spock surged away from the wall with all his strength - which happened to be considerably superior to that of a human, halfbreed though he may be. His head snapped forward, crashing into the other boy’s mouth and bloodying his lips. One foot shot between his attacker’s legs and the heel of his palm connected hard with Smile’s breastbone. The Terran tripped backwards, arms pin-wheeling uselessly as he fell.

Spock was on him before he’d even hit the floor.

He had been attacked before in his time, humiliated and tormented by almost every Terran boy looking to ascend the primitive social hierarchy which existed here. It was something he usually endeavoured simply to endure, imitating that distinct Vulcan stoicism which was supposed to be his heritage.

But he had almost been free.

He had almost walked out of this place free and clear, an adult no longer required to suffer the violence and indignities of this hellhole he’d landed in.

He snarled his frustration as he landed atop the Terran, his weight alone enough to wind him. Smiles reached a hand up into his face, and Spock almost broke his wrist when he grabbed it and twisted. The Terran shouted in protest, writhing beneath him in an attempt to relieve the pressure. He rolled onto his stomach, and Spock used the new leverage to force his arm up between his shoulder blades. With his free hand he grasped the boy’s tussled hair. He slammed Smiles’ smirking face into the floor once, twice, three times until he felt bone break under his hands and the Terran howled wetly. Spock bared his teeth in furious satisfaction at the sound.

Victorious, he rose up slowly, standing with his feet planted either side of the Terran, his head cocked as he regarded him. The teenager flopped over onto his back. Smiles’ nose was broken, bright red human blood streaming into his mouth and across the floor. He was crying, whimpering, batting ineffectually at Spock’s shins.

The Vulcan reared back, abruptly horrified by the sight. Disgust clenched his stomach. All the rage that had fuelled him drained so quickly he felt chill. There was a reason these Terran children despised him.

He stood for a moment with his back turned, listening to the bloody gurgling of his felled opponent. He breathed purposefully, trying to centre himself, trying desperately to forget the feelings of transferred hate and revulsion that had assaulted his mental barriers with every glancing contact between them. Then, straightening his clothing with a perfunctory tug at the hem, he moved to collect his discarded bag. He slung it over his shoulder and strode for the door without a backwards glance.

He’d almost made it over the threshold when Smiles crashed into him from behind with an incoherent roar. They tumbled out into the hallway together, Spock’s forehead striking the door frame on the way. Pain blossomed behind his eyes, blinding. As they landed, he brought his elbow back hard and fast, relishing the dry heave as it connected with the other’s solar plexus. Smiles rolled off him, bleeding and gasping, but that wasn’t enough now. Green rage filled Spock’s vision, and he had his hand round the Terran’s throat before he was conscious of the decision.

All the years these weak, petty little humans had tormented him, _subjugated_ him, trapped him in here like a freak in a cage for Smiles and his ilk to poke sticks at. It was as if a dam had burst, as if the maximum capacity of his tolerance had finally been reached and exceeded.

Spock bared his teeth as the Terran punched awkwardly at his ribs and stomach, ignoring the blows with little difficulty. Smiles’ eyes bulged, his nails clawing at the Vulcan’s sensitive hands, but still he refused to let go. Through the contact, he could feel the other’s animal terror, his furious fight or flight instinct, his wordless rage. All of it growing dimmer with every breath Spock denied him.

At last, almost too late, the Vulcan released his hold. Smiles sobbed in relief, but it was short lived.

Acting almost entirely on instinct, Spock slapped his palm cross one side of the Terran’s face. Smiles had just enough time to flinch, and then Spock was hurtling wildly into his mindspace. It was crude and clumsy telepathy, unpractised, but he neither wanted nor needed finesse for this task. He crashed through the natural mental barriers that attempted to obstruct him, ran rampant along the foreign human thought pathways, thrashed in the torrent of human emotions which threatened to drown him - and only when he thought he’d invaded deep enough did he let loose the mental scream of fury, hatred and pain which had been building inside him most of his life.

Gasping, he reeled back from the Terran, landing on the floor of the hallway. It took him a few seconds to orient himself, to gather himself safely back within his own mindspace.

When he did, he assessed the damage.

Smiles was still lying on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. Every so often, he twitched spasmodically, but gave no further reaction when Spock peered into his face. The Vulcan looked around, but the halls were mercifully empty. He grasped the Terran under the arms and dragged him quickly back into the room.

He lay him out on the floor beside one of the beds, pausing long enough to lower his ear to the boy’s chest and assure himself that breath sounds were normal and that his heart was still pounding steadily. When that was done, he rolled him over onto his side so that the blood from his nose wouldn’t drown him.

Then he left, closing the door gently behind him.

Expression carefully neutral, he set off down the hallway. He kept his pace normal and unhurried, and even remembered to wipe most of the blood from his face before he encountered anyone. He was uncertain of the extent of the damage he had just inflicted, and did not intend to seek clarification.

He was almost free.

There were already two other boys and a girl standing in reception when he arrived, lined up in front of the facility’s director and a woman in a pilot’s uniform. Spock quietly joined them, resting his hands in the small of his back to hide the fine tremor.

“Spock, S’chn T’gai,” the director read from his PADD, fumbling the syllables. He appeared to tick off the name, then nodded decidedly. “All accounted for and ready to go, then.”

The pilot was staring at him openly.

“Our resident Vulcan,” the director explained when he noticed, sounding vaguely uncomfortable.

She looked surprised. “Vulcan? I thought this place was Terran-only.”

No one seemed inclined to give further explanation, so Spock addressed her directly. “I am half-Terran, which has entitled me to residence here.”

One of the boys couldn’t seem to contain himself at that, snorting derisively. “I’d be careful how you throw that word ‘entitled’ around, Halfbreed.”

“Yes. Well.” The director cleared his throat pointedly, quelling them. “For the record, I need to confirm that you understand the following legalities. As you have now all come of age, you are no longer wards of the Terran Empire. Our responsibility to provide shelter, nourishment, education and legal protection is ended. We have provided access to transportation and a suitable amount of credits in order to ease the transition, but you will be expected to procure your own employment and residence once you arrive planetside. Is this understood?”

“Understood,” Spock intoned with the others. He was still watching the pilot, who had yet to stop staring at him. On the front of her black uniform was pinned the Starfleet insignia, Earth shining in gold before an archaic sword. _Terra Magnum Imperium_. He had once been told it was designed to represent the formidable military strength which had always underpinned the Empire, but to Spock it looked almost as if the blade had been thrust into the planet’s core.

“Excellent. If you will each place your right hands on the PADD as proof of that agreement, we can all be on our way.”

Spock signed his contract with the others, then followed the pilot out to the shuttle which would finally take him to Earth.

 

* * *

 

 

**Stardate 2255.192.**

**Earth, Iowa.**

**Shipyard Bar.**

 

Jim lounged against the bar, nursing his bottle of beer and watching the crowd. It was almost an exclusively human gathering, with the sole exceptions of an Orion girl undulating around a pole near the back of the room and the weirdly conspicuous Vulcan bartender who liked to frown at Jim with his stupid pointy eyebrows. Strobe lights painted vivid colours across anonymous faces and tech-tuned music thrummed through the floor, vibrating in his chest like a second heartbeat. Girls twisted their hips to the rhythm while men prowled around them, ever hopeful.

For perhaps the third time in an hour he checked the device stashed in his pocket, yet again fitting his hand round it to check he could easily press the button when needed.

Academy kids had descended on the place tonight, garish in their red cadet uniforms. They were loud and rowdy, ordering drinks en masse and roaring wordlessly when they shot them back. Jim rolled his eyes each time. He finished his beer and ordered another with a hand gesture, eyes still scanning the dancefloor. It wasn’t long before he spotted what he’d been waiting for.

Nyota Uhura slipped through the crush of bodies with feline grace. Clad in ass-hugging leathers, heeled boots and a shirt cropped to her midriff, she was certainly something to behold, and Jim had to hide a grin in his drink as he watched. Most regulars knew not to bother her by now, but every Academy uniform in the place all but stopped dead. Heads turned, eyes narrowed, and the sudden rush of pheromones was almost detectable.

She circulated for a minute or so, artfully garnering attention, before moving towards the bar not far from where Jim sat. She beamed at the bartender despite the blank expression he returned, and ordered something neon and sparkling. Jim kept his attention on the uniforms. Three of them in particular seemed to be working up their nerve, leering at Nyota and downing their drinks like shots of liquid courage. Evidently reaching some unspoken consensus, they started forward.

Jim let them get just close enough for the first of them to open his mouth in introduction, before sliding smoothly in front of them. He braced his arm on the bar beside Nyota, leaning blatantly into her personal space.

“Hey sweetheart.”

She turned round, arching a brow at all four of them. “Boys.”

Jim could feel three pissed off glares prickling the back of his neck, so he made a show of glancing dismissively over his shoulder and slurring like he was drunk. “Guys. Mind backing up a bit? You’re kind of crowding us here.”

The biggest of the uniforms sneered like Jim was something he’d wipe off his shoe. His eyes flicked to Nyota. “This hick bothering you?”

She gave a soft scornful little laugh. “This hick is _always_ bothering me. Don’t worry, I can handle him.”

Jim winked in the most obnoxious manner he could manage. “You _could_ handle me. That’s an invitation.”

“Hey,” the cadet snapped. “You better mind your manners -”

“Oh relax, Cupcake. It was a _joke_.” He squeezed the guy’s shoulder with one hand.

Unnoticed, his other hand slipped the miniature scanner from his pocket, pressed it up close to the guy’s shirt, and hit the go button. It beeped once, the noise lost in the music, to let him know it had successfully detected a credit storage device in near enough range. He pressed the button a second time, activating the illegally modded credit siphoning program he’d spent the last two months designing.

The cadet grabbed the front of Jim’s jacket and pulled him up close - which was incidentally perfect, considering it kept them in tight enough proximity for the scanner to do its thing.

“Hey, farmboy. Maybe you can’t count, but there are three of us and one of you.”

“So get some more guys,” Jim suggested, enjoying himself now. “Maybe it’ll be a fair fight.” And in a final act of provocation, he reached up and patted the guy condescendingly on the cheek.

He was fully expecting it by then, so he was ready when the cadet hauled back and punched him. Those gathered at the bar around them let out yelps of surprise. The adrenaline hit Jim before the pain, a spark of violent excitement racing through his veins. He grinned, and knew it to be an unsettling expression from the way ‘Cupcake’ hesitated.

Some rational part of his brain reminded him that he needed to keep close, at least for a few more seconds, so he grasped the cadet’s shirt, pulled him flush, and brought his knee up into the other man’s groin. Cupcake groaned and sunk against him, his weight effectively pinning Jim to the bar. People were backing away from them hurriedly, making space. All save Nyota, who was watching with narrowed, appraising eyes.

His scanner beeped a third and final time, task complete. He tucked it away.

Jim shoved off the bar with all his strength and Cupcake went lurching backwards, landing on his ass a few feet away. He would have laughed, but the next cadet was on him in an instant. Jim punched him twice in the face in vicious succession, then delivered a blow to the stomach hard enough to wind him. As the guy bent forward, Jim grabbed his shoulders and hauled, sending him careening towards Nyota.

He didn’t get to see what happened. Arms came round him from behind and clenched, effectively trapping him. It would have been a perfect opportunity to set the scanner working a second time, but as it was he could only struggle to free himself as Cupcake loomed up in front of him. The cadet wore a look of incredible satisfaction as his fist ploughed into Jim’s undefended ribs.

Jim grunted, body trying to curl forward. The guy behind him wasn’t letting go, though, so he jumped instead, using the hold as leverage to bring both feet up and kick Cupcake square in the chest. The cadet pinning him collapsed under his weight, and suddenly Jim was rolling free across the sticky floor, high heeled feet scrambling away from him. He staggered upright, bouncing and eager. A table was right next to him and he grabbed a bottle, swinging it at the cadet who’d held him. It shattered against the side of his head in a magnificent explosion of glass, beer and blood.

A quick glance told him that the third cadet was still with Nyota. She was playing helpless, wrapped around him like she was scared of all this needless violence, but Jim saw her pocketing her own scanner and had to fight back a smile.

Satisfied that number three wasn’t going to be a problem, he turned back to finish with the other two - and Cupcake’s fist cracked into his face hard enough to make the world tilt.

He toppled backwards, landing spread-eagle across one of the tables. He was still gaping dazedly at the ceiling when Cupcake hauled him up by the front of his shirt and punched him again. Jim tasted blood. Another blow and his nose was bleeding. Another and another and Jim couldn’t get his bearings enough to fight free.

A piercing whistle cut through the bar.

Immediately, Jim fell back onto the tabletop as the cadet released his shirt in order to snap a salute. He groaned as his spine protested. From his upside down vantage, he could just about see someone approaching, and squinted up at the face that peered into his own.

With his steel grey hair and distinctive eye-patch, Captain Christopher Pike was instantly recognisable. Jim had seen his face a thousand times on news broadcasts and Starfleet recruitment holovids. And the older man looked like recognition was dawning on him, too, if his growing frown was anything to judge by.

“So this is George Kirk’s progeny. You look just like him.”

Jim tried to lever himself up off the table, but it tilted under his weight and he rolled off, crashing onto the floor instead. He was pretty sure there wasn’t a lifeform in the bar who wasn’t standing there watching at this point, drinking in his humiliation like it was the new speciality on tap. Fuck it, then. He rose up on his knees, tilting his head back to offer up a bloodied grin.

“James T. Kirk, at your service.”

Pike regarded him stonily. Lifting his voice, he addressed the room at large. “Look closely, cadets. This is what failure looks like. Let it be a warning.”

Jim flushed, unable to stop himself.

The older man cocked his head, wearing an expression like he was examining some distasteful curiosity. “You should be serving the Empire, Kirk. You of all people.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

Pike’s good eye was glacial. “Reparations. Sins of the father.”

Jim let out a bitter sound that might have been a laugh. “He’s got another son for that. Think I’ll stick to the bar room brawls and hedonism, if that’s okay with you.”

The other man’s lip curled. “Your father abandoned eight hundred men and women of the Empire to die in space when the _Kelvin_ went down. Nice to see you carrying on that legacy of disgrace, kid.”

And with that, Pike turned on his heel as if dismissing him from existence, striding out of the bar with a stream of obedient cadets scuttling after him. Jim remained kneeling there, eyes fixed on the floor. His face was burning, embarrassment and anger nearly indistinguishable. Tension in the room finally broke and conversation bubbled up again, a few nervous laughs ringing out loud and startling. The sound made him flinch.

He was still furiously trying to claw back a sense of dignity when a pair of shiny black shoes appeared in front of him, and Jim blinked at them for a second before looking up. The Vulcan bartender stared blandly back at him.

“Do you require medical attention?”

Jim leaned forward, and very pointedly spat blood onto one of the immaculate shoes. “Back off, Pointy. M’fine.”

Nyota got there then, preventing any reply from the bristling Vulcan. She crouched down next to Jim, sweeping an assessing gaze over him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He climbed to his feet with a wince and followed her as she strode from the dancefloor to one of the darkened seating areas. Jim collapsed unceremoniously onto the cushions and let out a gusty breath. “That was a good fight, all things considered.” He grabbed a napkin off the table and held it to his nose, which had started to drip blood down his shirt.

“That depends on how much we got,” she muttered, taking out her own modified scanner from the little purse she wore and joining him on the sofa. “You _did_ manage to get it working in between getting your face beat to a bloody pulp, right?”

“Well I don’t know,” he snapped back. “Give me a minute for the concussion to clear and I’ll tell you.”

“Oh get over it, I’ve seen you in worse states.” He glared at her, digging in his pocket for the scanner. “Yeah, remind me again why my role in this partnership of ours mostly involves letting violent douchebags kick the shit out of me?”

“Maybe because you _enjoy_ it? And anyway, I do my share of work. Remember the guy I let grope me for ten minutes while you stole that _stupid_  fucking bike he owned?”

Jim smirked. He loved that bike.

The palm-sized scanner wasn’t the prettiest bit of engineering he’d ever done, consisting mostly of cannibalised PADD components and doctored credit chips. The first two prototypes had been utter disasters, and he hadn’t been entirely sure that this one would do any better when it came to the crunch. So it was something of a pleasant surprise to see the tiny screen flicker to life displaying credit that certainly hadn’t been in his possession at the start of the night.

He whistled, impressed. “Only managed to get one of them, but I think I got his shore-leave bonus and then some. How much did your guy have on him?”

Nyota was staring at her own device, slow smile spreading across her face. “Jim. This has got to be nearly six month’s wages.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What, seriously?” He leaned over to check, dripping blood across the upholstery. “Shit. That’s... more than we’ve had in ages.”

“I can buy new shoes again!”

“Fuck that, we can buy _food_.”

Jim sunk back into the cushions, thinking happily of a meal that actually tasted of something for once instead of the insipid attempts his ancient replicator spat out at him. His whole face felt sore and swollen, and his pride had taken a fair beating as well - but all in all, it had been a decent night.

Nyota nudged him. “We should get out of here, on the off chance they check their credit accounts again tonight.”

Jim nodded, reluctant to move from his aching sprawl. “Yeah, probably.”

“You’re absolutely _sure_ they can’t prove it was us? Even if they suspected?”

“Nah. Should show up on a credit statement as a load of randomised purchases. Well. Alright, mostly porn. So yeah, they’ll know they’ve been had, but not how or who did it.”

She stood up and held out her hand. “Come on, Kirk.” She pulled him to his feet, then linked her arm through his as they left the bar. The night air was warm and pleasant, illuminated by the acidic blue glow of the Riverside ship yard. They made their way over to where Jim’s bike was parked, and Nyota climbed on behind him.

She laughed as he started up the engine.

“What? What’s funny?”

“I just realised that poor cadet is going to have to explain why he blew six month’s wages on porn.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta lucyclairedelune for the wonderful help and suggestions on the first two chapters! 
> 
> I'll be trying to keep to a weekly update schedule for this story, so keep an eye out for chapters every Thursday. Enjoy.

 

 

**Stardate 2255.200.**

**Earth, Iowa.**

**Shipyard Bar.**

 

Having worked at the Shipyard Bar for just over three years now, Spock knew the daily routines of his customers well.

First there were the builders and engineers who worked at the shipyard during the day. They streamed in when their shifts were over, smelling of sweat and oil and heated metal. Younger workers would line up by the bar to socialize, while the older ones typically settled around tables. Mostly they did their best to ignore Spock, to avoid looking directly at his face as they purchased their drinks. He had no objection to this treatment. It was considerably more tolerant than the attitude of some Terrans he’d encountered during his time on Earth.

Come evening, the social atmosphere shifted considerably. It had taken him some time to parse the subtleties of this alteration and suitably accommodate it, but he now believed himself to be knowledgeable in the matter. A younger clientèle would invariably arrive as the sky darkened, and he had learned that they did not wish to sit comfortably and complain about their occupation, as the shipyard workers did. In fact, from his observations he could only conclude that they preferred as much _discomfort_ as he was able to provide: chaotic lighting, music loud enough to strain the ears, the ability to consume alcohol so excessively they were forced to be violently ill. It was truly baffling behaviour.

There were also the tourists and passers-through to factor in, those who came to view the shipyard or who were simply travelling on the nearby highway. They were good for his profits, so Spock couldn’t really object, although large groups like last week’s Academy visit more often than not ended in trouble. The cadets had all departed back to Starfleet three days ago, however, taking with them both the temporary boost to his earnings and the greater potential for violence.

It left behind a quiet business, for once.

Spock carefully smoothed his hair back from his face. It had grown long enough to tuck neatly behind the pointed tips of his ears. He adjusted the soft material of his gloves, pulling them tight, making sure his sleeves overlapped them, then laid his hands flat on the surface of the bar.

There was nothing to do, and Spock found himself with little to occupy him but observation.

There was a particular Terran who was almost always present, at any given time or day. He liked to sit at the bar and order bourbon in a slow but steady stream as the hours passed by. He seemed to have no employment or other demands on his time, as far as Spock could deduce, and for a while he’d wondered how the man could even afford to sit there drinking each day.

Then he’d noticed the deals.

Men and women who were as often as not strangers to Spock’s eyes would enter and move directly to the seat next to the reclusive Terran. Sometimes conversation would be exchanged. More likely, a credit chip and a PADD would be slid wordlessly across to him, and he would quickly pocket the chip and scribble something on the PADD with a stylus. Spock had glimpsed the screen once, under the guise of needing to wipe down that particular surface of the bar. The man was selling medical prescriptions, and obviously making a tidy profit doing so.

The Vulcan had never bothered reporting the matter. It was far from the only legal transgression which occurred here.

Presently, he made his way over to the Terran.

“Do you wish me to refill your glass, Doctor McCoy?”

The man donned his customary scowl. “You always gotta be so formal? You’re slinging drinks, Spock, not serving canapés at a goddamn Starfleet banquet.”

“Is that a no?”

“For the love of... _Yes_ , refill my drink, you damn hobgoblin.”

Spock pulled the bottle of bourbon from behind the bar and poured. “Hobgoblin: a creature from Terran mythology, originating from European folktales, generally thought to possess an undesirable green complexion and pointed ears. Is that a derogatory reference to my Vulcan biology, Doctor?”

“Was supposed to be. Lost some of its sting with your linguistics lecture, though.”

“Very well. By that logic, I should simply deem you a low-functioning alcoholic, and refrain from further explanation or analysis.”

McCoy snorted laughter, apparently unable to help himself, and raised his glass. “I do enjoy these heart to hearts we have.”

Spock inclined his head, then went to go reorganise the drinks chiller.

 

* * *

 

 

The place was dead tonight. Jim didn’t mind. He wasn’t here to socialise.

He strode across the bar with a purpose in mind, determined, focused. This was absolutely going to work. Reaching the front, he hopped up onto the bar stool, ordered a beer, then turned pointedly to face the guy he’d sat down next to.

“So I hear you’re the local Doc.”

For a moment there was no response, then a dour glare turned towards him. “Yeah well I’m not practising, so if you’re here to beg a free consult on your crotch-rot or whatever disgusting -”

“Woah!” Vaguely horrified, Jim lowered his voice to a hiss. “I do not have... _crotch-rot_! What the fuck?”

The guy side-eyed him for a second, then went back to his drink. “Well it’s what most people want when they come over looking to make nice. Just assumed.”

Jim stared at him incredulously. “Are you serious? People try to whip out their junk around you often enough that it’s your go-to introduction?!”

The guy sighed. “What is it you do want, kid? I plan to pass out drunk by last call, and at this rate you’re gonna make me miss my deadline.”

So far, this idea was not panning out the way he’d expected, but he rallied. “Word is you give prescriptions, no questions asked.”

“Sometimes. For a price.” The doctor spared him an unimpressed once-over. “But no offence, you look like you can’t afford shit, let alone -”

Jim slid a PADD across to him, displaying on screen his half of the takings they’d swiped from the unfortunate cadets a week ago.

The doctor let out a low whistle. “Well that’s no small chunk of change. And what exactly are you hoping to buy with that?”

“How much felicium would it get me?”

The other man regarded him with a sceptical eyebrow. “Look. Whoever told you about me obviously didn’t explain my policy. I’m not gonna be your supplier, kid. I fill personal requests only. Nothing that gets me unwanted attention.”

The Vulcan bartender chose that moment to appear with Jim’s beer and another refill for the doctor.

“Listen, I swear I can make it worth your time. If this isn’t enough, there’s more credit where that came from. If you just - I’m sorry, can I help you with something?”

The Vulcan had stopped to listen. At Jim’s question, he quirked a pointed brow. “I apologise. I was simply thinking that Doctor McCoy was displaying rare wisdom in refusing your proposal.”

“Excuse me?”

He hitched a shoulder ever so slightly. “One can only deduce, based on the sheer quantity of pharmaceuticals you are requesting, your ultimate intention is to then re-sell them to other consumers. Should he accept, there are only two real possible outcomes. In the first, Doctor McCoy does indeed agree to continue supplying you with product, eventually prompting superiors in the medical profession to question why he is prescribing such a high quantity of a controlled substance, and inevitably resulting in the loss of his licence and what little remains of his medical reputation.”

Both humans stared at him.

After a few seconds, McCoy prompted hesitantly, “And the second?”

“In the second scenario, Doctor, you are only serving to facilitate your own competition. The young man is evidently ambitious, and would presumably have little difficulty establishing a wider network of clients than you yourself are able to maintain. While the upfront profit may be tempting, in the long-term you would only endanger your sole source of income.”

Again, silence reigned for long moments.

Jim held out his hands incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

The Vulcan’s face remained impassive. “I assure you, I am not.”

At that, McCoy threw back his head and laughed. “That answer enough for you?”

“Wait, you’re not actually _listening_ to this, are you? I’m not... You wouldn’t... The dude’s a fucking _Vulcan_ , what does he know about selling meds?!”

The doctor was still chuckling, but his face hardened at Jim’s outburst. “Put it this way. I find his logic a hell of a lot more appealing than some junkie upstart looking to make credits off of me. So scram, leave me to black out in peace.”

Seething, Jim snatched up his PADD and his beer, then turned and stalked away. Nyota was still sitting where he’d left her, and made an inquisitive noise as he approached.

“It was a bust. Don’t ask.”

She smirked and cooed at him. “Aaaw, poor Jim. Your five-minute dream of being kingpin of Iowa, over before it began.”

“Well it just sounds stupid if you say it like _that_...” He sat down next to her, resting his chin in his hands. “We’ve got to do something with this credit while we’ve got it, Yota. We’ve gotta... I don’t know, _invest_ in something, make it multiply.”

She shrugged. “Why? The scanners worked perfectly, why can’t we just keep using them?”

“And who the hell are we going to use them on? This backwater shipyard is the only populated area in a hundred miles. _Everyone knows us here_. Those cadets were a gift. Out-of-towners who are are now safely back out of town. But if everyone here suddenly starts turning up with empty bank accounts...”

“Yeah alright, I get it. Why did you even bother to build the things if you knew we could only use them once?”

He gripped her shoulder. “Oh we’re going to use them again. Just gotta wait til we get the hell out of this place. Me and you get to a city, two in a billion, and we can be as rich as you damn well like.”

She snorted, brushing him off. “Fine. You get right on that.”

“I will.” He stood up decisively. “But first, gonna go for a smoke. Coming?”

“No, go ahead.”

Jim strolled out of the bar, digging in his jacket pocket for a cigarette. He lit it and moved out into the parking lot, kicking at the dirt. Taking a drag, he tipped his head back and blew a stream of smoke into the night air on a sigh of relief. Cigarettes weren’t the tar-filled poison they’d been a couple of centuries ago, but manufacturers still pumped them full of nicotine. He’d been craving one all day.

A scrape of dirt behind him was all the warning he got, then something struck him hard in the side of the head. Jim saw stars, felt himself falling. His hands and knees hit the gravel, and then someone kicked him in the ribs. He fell on his side, and the next kick landed squarely in his stomach. All the breath left him in a painful rush.

He coughed and gagged, tried to blink himself back to clarity. Blood was streaming down his forehead, half blinding him. His head was spinning. Awkwardly, he got his knees under him again and tried to crawl, but someone immediately grabbed his collar and hauled him upwards. His back was slammed up against a car and a fist collided with his jaw, snapping his head back.

He reeled from the sudden onslaught, barely able to get his bearings. Slumped against the car, he shook his head stupidly and squinted up into a face he only vaguely recognised.

The cadet was holding something, a metal tire iron, and brandished it in Jim’s face. He could see his own blood painting the tip. “Where is it, you little bastard? What? You didn’t think we’d realise it was you?”

“Where’s what?!”

The tire iron swung again, and Jim hunched away from it. It struck the car window where his head had been a second ago. Glass shattered, tiny shards littering the inside of his collar.

Jim brought up his knee, but it was clumsy and only struck the guy’s leg. He pushed, using the car as leverage, and at least managed to free himself. Backing away, he kept one hand outstretched in a placating gesture, frantically trying to wipe the blood from his eyes with the other.

“What the fuck? What are you talking about?”

“My _credits_ , asswhipe. I don’t know how, but you and your whore girlfriend cleaned me out last week, and I want every last _fucking bit_ of it back if I have to kick it out of you one credit at a time.”

Jim placed him, then. The guy they’d stolen six month’s wages from. Well shit.

“Look. I have no idea what your problem is, but I have nothing to do with it.” He backed into another car and hurriedly sidestepped round it. “If you remember, _I_ was the one you left bleeding on the floor -”

The cadet lunged at him, and Jim scrambled away. It was starting to dawn on him that the guy wasn’t playing by barfight rules this time, if the murderous look on his face was anything to judge by. He was out to do damage.

“I missed my tuition payment, you fucker! I have to re-apply next _year_! I _know_ it was you!”

“I swear, I don’t -” Jim turned and started running mid-sentence. It wasn’t his proudest moment, but he was smart enough to know when he was outmatched. His bike was out near the edge of the parking lot. If he could just get to it-

The cadet tackled him like a linebacker. Jim went down, tasting dirt, nowhere near his bike.

 

* * *

 

 

Spock had triple-checked the credit transfers for the night, adjusted the temperature on the drinks chiller, and circulated the room twice to wipe down tables and collect used glasses and empty bottles. The glasses had been neatly placed in the sonic cleaner, and the bottles were stacked in a plastite crate beneath the bar, waiting to be delivered to the recycling receptacle. No one demanded his attention, nothing required his supervision.

The Vulcan scanned the room a final time, ensuring that no sudden crisis was foreseeable if he was momentarily absent, then bent to pick up the crate of bottles. He passed into the kitchenette concealed from customers behind the bar, then keyed in his security code to the back door, stepping outside. The receptacle was around the side of the building.

He immediately detected the sounds of scuffle from the front parking lot, though at first thought little of it. He’d long discovered that physical fighting was a common pastime among intoxicated Terrans, and had ceased interfering after the third time he’d been struck by one of the participants. So he busied himself sliding the bottles one by one into the receptacle, listening to the crash of glass. It was almost filled to maximum capacity, but collection of recycled materials was due in the morning, so he was unconcerned.

Task finished, he turned to walk back into the building. A particularly loud thud and an abbreviated curse gave him pause, however. Spock glanced back over his shoulder, then reluctantly moved towards the parking lot. He reached the corner of the building and peered out across the cluster of gloomy vehicles. There was a flash of movement in the midst of them. At first only one Terran was visible, standing braced against a car, but as Spock moved closer it became apparent that he was kicking repeatedly at a second figure huddled on the ground. The Vulcan lengthened his strides, tossing the empty crate aside.

It was only when he was almost upon them that a flash of recognition caught him by surprise, and he realised that the one on the floor was none other than James Kirk, the con-artist who had propositioned Doctor McCoy not minutes ago.

“What is this?”

The Terran doing the beating barely spared him a look. “Fuck off, we’re busy.”

Kirk heaved out a breath as he was kicked in the stomach. He rolled over in an attempt to shield himself, but his attacker simply aimed for his kidney instead, making him arch backwards and flail in the gravel.

The Vulcan stepped forward. “That is enough. Whatever he has done -”

“He’s paying back a debt,” the Terran snarled, once again lodging his boot in Kirk’s ribs. “Here, have a go. Let him work down his bar tab.”

Spock reached out and clasped the Terran’s shoulder with his gloved hand, pulling him backwards. The man came round swinging a weapon, but Spock ducked the clumsy blow easily enough.

“What the hell is your problem?”

“I am telling you to cease your assault and vacate this establishment.”

“And I’m telling you to fuck off -”

Spock delivered a sharp, uncompromising jab of his fingers to the Terran’s windpipe. The man let out an ugly gurgle, briefly clutching his throat, then swung again with what Spock now saw was a tire iron. The Vulcan blocked smoothly with his forearm, allowing the metal bar to slam against his ulna, simultaneously moving forward and forcing the Terran away from Kirk’s incapacitated form. He deflected two more desperate blows aimed at his face, then brought the side of his palm down with finality on the Terran’s clavicle. There was a sickening crunch. The man screamed and dropped.

It was all over in a matter of seconds.

The Vulcan regarded him critically. “This is the second time I am requesting you leave this establishment. I will not do so a third time.”

He heard the door to the bar open behind him, then approaching footsteps.

“Jim?”

Spock looked back to see Kirk’s female partner crouching beside him. He was trying and failing to sit up, coughing breathlessly until blood splashed down his chin. Bright blue eyes were fixed warily on Spock, one of them rapidly swelling shut.

The other Terran managed to regain his feet under his own power, although he had turned a shade of green not dissimilar to the Vulcan’s own complexion, and was clutching at his damaged shoulder. The arm on that side hung useless. His face was thunderous, and Spock did not need skin-to-skin contact to sense the fury emanating from him.

“Your pet Vulcan isn’t always going to be around, Kirk.”

Spock stood his ground, prepared for the man to launch another ill-advised attack, but he settled for throwing one last venomous glare at Kirk, retrieving his tire iron and stumbling off across the parking lot. Spock watched until he got into one of the cars and drove away. Only then did he let himself relax incrementally, and turn to examine the two remaining Terrans.

Kirk had his hands cradled protectively over his side, face screwed up in a grimace. “Shit, that hurt.”

“What the hell happened?” his friend demanded, sounding both concerned and extremely annoyed. “Was that one of those Academy students?”

“Yeah, wanting his credits back. Took me by surprise.”

Spock began to walk back towards the building. “You were severely beaten. I shall summon a med-unit to attend -”

“No!” Kirk shook his head adamantly, still trying to force himself into a sitting position. “No med-unit, no hospital. It’s fine. I’ll walk it off.”

“Jim -”

He fixed a pointed glance on her. “Not gonna happen. Just... give me a minute. No hospital.”

She seemed to acquiesce, standing up and moving instead towards Spock, her boots crunching on the stony ground. She held out her hand as she approached. Spock glanced at it and made no move to respond. She shrugged.

“Think you can help me get him inside, maybe clean him up a bit?”

“I do not...” His gaze moved past her, to where Kirk had finally managed to drag himself into a sitting position, braced against the car. Even that small victory appeared to have cost him. Spock sighed. “Very well.”

She smiled exquisitely, her eyes flickering up and down the length of him in an overtly flirtatious manner. “Thank you. I’m Nyota by the way.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, then moved to aid Kirk.

Spock crouched next to him and grasped his wrist, guiding the Terran’s arm round his shoulders in a perfunctory manner. He didn’t particularly welcome the close contact, but he doubted Nyota would be able to lift him alone. Then he stood. Kirk groaned as he was elevated to his feet, clawing his fingers in Spock’s shirt, but didn’t exactly protest. As Nyota strode ahead, Spock half-carried, half-directed the injured Terran around the back of the building, where he keyed in his security code again and they shuffled awkwardly into the kitchenette.

“Do you have a first aid kit or something?” Nyota queried, looking around. “Ice?”

“Yes. But first I would suggest you fetch Doctor McCoy from the front room.”

“A doctor? Even better.”

“He is the extremely intoxicated Terran sitting at the bar, no doubt complaining loudly about my absence.”

Her mouth twitched into an uncertain smile, then dropped when she realised he was in earnest.

“Sooner would be preferable.”

She obediently turned on her heel and left the kitchenette. Spock took a moment to survey the room, then guided Kirk over to the metal table in the centre. He braced the Terran against it, stepping back cautiously. “Are you able to remain standing?”

“M’fine,” Kirk muttered, averting his gaze. “Wish you’d both stop acting like I’m about to swoon.” He was breathing in short, shallow gasps, one of his eyes was now swollen almost completely shut, and blood trickled sluggishly down the side of his face. He used his sleeve to dab at it. Spock moved to get him a towel.

There was a commotion at the door, and they turned to see Nyota bodily shoving Doctor McCoy into the room. He was trying to fend her off, looking thoroughly offended by the manhandling.

“He didn’t want to move,” she explained with a shrug, when Spock looked askance.

“Lady, if you don’t get your grabby hands off me - Spock! What the hell is going on?”

The Vulcan gestured at Kirk. “He is in need of your medical expertise.”

McCoy performed a strange double-take at the sight of Kirk, his expressive brows furrowing incredulously. “I _literally_ just saw you five minutes ago. Good god, how do you even manage to do that much damage to yourself in so short a time?!”

“Didn’t do it myself,” Kirk snapped on a wheeze.

The doctor looked at each of them in turn. “And what do you expect _me_ to do? Call him a med-unit and be done with.”

“Not going to a -” Kirk broke off with a wince, holding his side.

Spock sighed. “He refuses to attend a hospital.”

“So? What do you care?” McCoy demanded.

At that, the Vulcan was brought up short. Truthfully, he was unsure how or why he had become involved in the situation. He had no investment in the welfare of James Kirk. In fact, the Terran had been nothing but unpleasant to him during past encounters. It would be far simpler - and no doubt wiser - to do as the doctor advised, summon a med-unit and be rid of the predicament. His indulgence of Kirk’s wishes could only be described as irrational.

“Can’t you just examine him?” Nyota prompted, sounding impatient. “See if he even needs a hospital?”

“Of course he needs a damn hospital, look at him!” McCoy stomped closer, peering into Kirk’s face without preamble. He moved his finger back and forth several times, watching blue eyes track after it, then used both thumbs to probe at the laceration at his temple. “You feel dizzy? Nauseas?”

“No.”

“Just wait, it’ll come.” He turned back to Spock. “What exactly do you expect me to _do_ here?”

“Mister Kirk sustained several traumatic blows to the abdomen that I witnessed. An examination is clearly in order.”

“I know that, you green-blooded bastard! And he needs it performed with medical equipment and by a doctor who hasn’t been mainlining hard liquor for four hours!” McCoy seemed to lose all remnants of composure then. “I am _drunk_ , Spock! This isn’t a good idea.”

The Vulcan considered this for a moment, then cocked his head. “You once confided to me that you spent almost a year actively practising medicine while drinking profusely. Evidently you are adept at performing while intoxicated.”

McCoy growled and stepped towards him.

Spock moved smoothly towards the door. “My presence is required at the bar. I shall leave you to debate the matter between yourselves.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Vulcan disappeared, leaving Jim to flinch under the expression McCoy turned on him.

“Oh well this is just _perfect_. Don’t even have a damn tricorder and I’m supposed to just patch you up on his say-so, am I?” Unceremoniously, he snatched away the towel Jim had been pressing to his forehead. “And this is going to need stitches since we’re apparently heathens who don’t use regen treatment.”

“I’ll find a first aid kit,” Nyota offered, sounding vaguely amused.

“Good, and when you’ve done that you can help me get his shirt off. I want to check for internal injury before anything.”

They tugged his jacket from his shoulders, then Jim lifted his arms stiffly and Nyota and McCoy peeled his T-shirt up and off him.

“I swear, I had a dream just like this once,” he quipped, winking at both of them.

Nyota frowned, but McCoy just snorted in grim amusement. “Flirt all you like, ain’t gonna make my hands any warmer. Lie down.”

Disconcerted, Jim lowered himself gingerly onto the tabletop, hissing as the cold metal touched his back. His ribs ached fiercely and his stomach muscles clenched in protest as he tried to straighten. Discoloured bruising was already blossoming vividly across his skin. McCoy wasted no time on pleasantries, setting his hands on Jim’s side and beginning to press and prod at each rib in turn, thoroughly ignoring Jim’s wincing.

“So you know the Vulcan guy well?” he asked at length, if only break the uncomfortable silence.

“He serves my drinks, is all. Then again, suppose these days that makes him family.”

Jim scoffed.

“Spock’s not a bad sort. For a xeno. Looks a bit too Romulan for some, but after the third or fourth time he corrects your grammar, starts to look a little less threatening, you know?”

Unbidden, a memory of the Vulcan breaking the cadet’s collarbone like it was nothing flashed through Jim’s head. He frowned sceptically, but stayed quiet. 

“Definitely fractured a couple,” McCoy decided at length. “Can’t feel a full break anywhere though. Course, if we weren’t trying to do this like we’re living in the goddamn dark ages I could tell you for sure.” Huffing irritably, he lowered himself until he could press his ear to Jim’s chest. “Breathe in.”

Jim did so.

“Deeper. It’ll feel like you can’t, but hopefully that’s just the bruising tightening everything up.”

“Hopefully?”

“Better than half a rib poking through your lung. Now shut up and breathe.”

The doctor listened intently for several minutes, occasionally turning his head from side to side to use both ears. Jim stared fixedly at the ceiling the whole time, hurting and vaguely embarrassed. He could smell alcohol whenever McCoy turned towards him, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t been warned.

Finally, the doctor straightened. “Doesn’t sound like there’s fluid or trapped air, at least. But I’m telling you, you need a better exam than I can do here.”

“This is fine -”

“Do you _know_ how many things could be wrong with you right now that I can’t find? For all I know, you’ve got blood collecting in your liver as we speak, and it’s going to swell and _explode_.”

Well really, Jim felt that was a little melodramatic, and probably less than medically accurate.

“Or you’ve got stomach acid pouring into your abdominal cavity. You know what that shit’ll do to you?”

“No -”

“Or, oh I don’t know, maybe you’ve got a haematoma that ruptures at any point during the next three months and you die suddenly of delayed internal bleeding -”

“Oh _come on_.” Jim struggled to sit up, a little alarmed by the sheer enthusiasm with which McCoy predicted his various gruesome demises. “It’s fine, _I’m_ fine.”

“I wasn’t done.”

“Well you are now.” He looked around for his shirt, finally noticing Nyota still holding it. “Give me that.”

She looked unimpressed. “Or what? You’ll hobble over here and look pathetic at me?”

“Just _give_ me it, Yota. We’re going home.”

McCoy held up his hands in defeat. “Alright, _fine._ No hospital. Just... calm down a minute.”

Jim eyed him suspiciously.

“First thing’s first. You’ve probably got concussion from whatever hit you upside the head.” He looked pointedly at Nyota, giving the instructions to her like she was the responsible one. “That means no letting him sleep for at least four hours. If he’s still walking and talking normally after that, should be fine.”

She nodded.

“And no bandaging his ribs, either. Just restricts the breathing, breeds infection.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Y’all send some of that credit you were flashing around my way and I’ll prescribe you pain meds that work a treat.”

Jim scowled. “You’re shaking me down?”

McCoy just shrugged unapologetically. “Price of a private consult, kid.”

Nyota was already rummaging in the pocket of Jim’s jacket. She fished out one of his credit chips and tossed it to the doctor. “That should be enough.”

McCoy caught it, reflexes seemingly undiminished no matter how much he’d been drinking. It disappeared swiftly into his coat pocket, and in his other hand materialised a PADD. He tapped the screen a few times, then scribbled something with a stylus. “Just put an order through in your name, ready to pick up whenever. Nice doing business with you.”

Jim thought that was a matter up for debate.

Nyota finally relented, and came over to help him get his shirt back on. He was shrugging back into his jacket, movements stiff and painful, when it occurred to Jim that at no point had he caught the doctor’s first name. The man had all but felt him up, that was definitely first name basis. “Hey. What do I call you, anyway?”

“‘Bastard’ was my ex-wife’s favourite nickname,” was the quick response.

“Didn’t end happily, huh?”

“Well _she_ was certainly happy about it all. Took the whole damn planet in the divorce. All I got left is this bar and the bones holding me up.”

Jim nodded awkwardly. “...Alright then. ‘Bones’ it is.”

The doctor threw him a caustic glare.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, you can follow me on tumblr for Star Trek fandom stuff and updates on fic, my user is verayne. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

**Stardate 2255.223.**

**Earth, Iowa.**

**Kirk Residence.**

 

_“Breaking news - Romulans have launched an attack in the Sol System.”_

Jim turned to stare at the plasma screen in surprise.

_“Approximately one point three Earth hours ago, a Romulan ship left warp within Imperial territory and proceeded to launch an attack on a space station in orbit of the Jovian moon Io. The space station, which functioned as a juvenile care facility for Terran minors, was completely destroyed in the assault. Starfleet ships responded immediately, pursuing the Romulans at warp speed as they fled the system, but as of yet no confrontation has been reported.”_

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Jim shook his head in grim amazement. The Romulan-Klingon rebellion had been raging in the Empire for as long as he could remember, but this was the first time he could recall it striking so close to home.

_“A handful of emergency shuttles managed to escape the blast, but it is thought that over twelve hundred Terran lives have been lost to the unprovoked attack - the vast majority of them under the age of eighteen. It has been declared an act of terrorism the likes of which hasn’t been witnessed in two centuries.”_

“You listening to this?”

Behind him, wrapped in the sheets of his bed, Nyota was staring at the news broadcast with a puzzled frown. “Why a kids’ home?”

“Shock factor?” Jim shrugged.

“Maybe, but... think about it. They’ve got the technology to sneak past Starfleet borders and appear in the middle of our system before anyone can do a thing about it, and all they do is blow up some meaningless space station? Why not the Luna defence base? Starfleet Headquarters?”

Jim looked back at the screen. They were showing images of the debris where the station had been. She was right. It was a tactically pointless move.

He stood up. “Want something to eat?”

“Not right now.” She stretched, long legs kicking free of the sheets and making him hesitate about leaving the room or not.

Hunger won out. Jim bounded down the stairs and into the kitchen, enjoying his regained freedom of movement. Three weeks had passed since the unfortunate incident in the Shipyard Bar’s parking lot. The bruises on his ribs were a sickly yellow colour and still flared painfully if he twisted at the wrong angle, but McCoy had given him another once-over the day before and finally admitted he probably wasn’t harbouring a haematoma time-bomb.

He placed an empty bowl and cup into the replicator, then programmed in his order and waited. The house had belonged to his mother’s side of the family, which was the only reason they hadn’t lost it along with George Kirk’s commission. Built out in the exact middle of nowhere some time during the last century, modern amenities like the food replicator and sonic cleaning equipment were a relatively recent addition, and tended to look at odds with the old-fashioned Carpenter Gothic style of the place. Technically it was all in his brother’s name, but Sam hadn’t ever been back to reclaim it or kick Jim out, so he was content to remain the family sponge for now.

His replicator beeped to notify him, and he took out his breakfast of bland cereal, stale coffee and a slightly sour apple. It wasn’t the most reliable of machines anymore, outdated by several years. He was more than a little tempted to spend his recent windfall on upgrading the damn thing. He missed eating food that tasted like food.

Still, it wasn’t in his nature to skip a meal no matter how bad it was, so he set about spooning up cereal with determination.

The kitchen needed cleaning, he noted absently as he gulped coffee. Sam had left him one of those automated little dust-bots that was supposed to scuttle round while he was absent, but the thing had given up the ghost months ago and Jim hadn’t yet bothered to fix it. He made a half-hearted attempt at wiping the counter he stood in front of, before deciding there were probably better things he could be going with his time.

Dumping the now empty bowl and cup into the sonic scrubber, he turned and made his way back upstairs. There was rarely much to occupy the mornings and afternoons, so most days typically began with long lie-ins, nursed hangovers, lazy marathons of e-net entertainment shows, and occasional bouts of convenient sex.

Nyota was dressed when he came back upstairs, to his vague disappointment. She was standing with her arms folded, staring intently at the plasma screen. It was still displaying the news broadcast and the wide-eyed reporter.

“Jim, listen to this.”

_“We’ve just... We’ve just received an update on the three Starfleet ships which left to pursue the Romulans. They were... All three ships have been confirmed destroyed.”_

Jim felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He felt suddenly, irrationally vulnerable.

 _“I repeat, all three ships have been confirmed destroyed. An emergency transmission made by Captain Anderson of the ISS Normandy records the last harrowing minutes of the firefight, during which a collection of Romulan and Klingon ships waiting beyond Imperial borders succeeded in ambushing Starfleet, reportedly using unfamiliar weapons systems.”_ The reporter shook her head, glancing back at the pristine structure of Starfleet Headquarters behind her. _“I don’t have any final figures on how many may have escaped in shuttles and lifepods, but Starfleet warships are known to carry a minimum of seven hundred crew members per vessel. This reporter can only speculate on the sheer loss of life that has taken place today.”_

The screen cut to a harried looking Starfleet Commodore climbing the steps to the Headquarters, ducking away from the flurry of questions being hurled by a crowd of press representatives.

“...Shit,” Jim said at last, in summation.

“What kind of ‘unfamiliar weapons system’ takes out three fully armed, pre-prepared warships? They’re supposed to be rebels on the outskirts of the Empire, where are they getting all this tech?” Nyota sounded almost offended, like they’d skewed her world-view and she didn’t appreciate it.

He shrugged. A cloaking device effective enough to let them sneak into the very heart of the Terran Empire was impressive on its own, let alone the raw firepower needed to take down three Starfleet ships. He wondered if the Romulans knew what they’d just done. This wasn’t the petty uprisings and picking off of Terran cargo and surveillance ships. There was no way the Empire wouldn’t see this as an act of war.

Still, he supposed there was an upside. If Starfleet went to war, the shipyard would be getting busier, and Jim could have his pick of easy marks.

 

* * *

 

 

It was late afternoon when the first announcement was made.

They were getting ready to go out, Nyota squeezing into her black jeans and Jim patting down his pockets to make sure he had the keys to his bike. The plasma screen was set to cartoons when it suddenly went quiet. They glanced at it, only to see the Starfleet insignia emblazoned across the screen. It remained there for ten seconds or more, before the image changed again and an automated voice explained, _“This is an emergency broadcast on all channels. Please stay tuned for an important Starfleet announcement. Repeat: this is an emergency broadcast on all channels.”_

Admiral Archer was shown standing on a podium in front of a crowd of press representatives, Starfleet officers and cadets, and curious citizens who’d managed to gather round the edges. Decked out in his formal grey uniform and cap, chest glittering with the numerous medals of service pinned there, he looked grim and resolute. Surrounding him were stern looking lieutenants, their hands resting on badly concealed phasers at their hips. They were tense, eyes relentlessly scanning the crowd. Even those gathered to listen seemed solemn, with none of the usual hype and excitement of a Starfleet press statement.

Archer raised a hand, calling for attention.

_“For too long now we have tolerated the defiance of the Romulan and Klingon races. For decades they have resisted our rule, broken our laws, spurned our people. And finally, with these acts of unforgivable terrorism, they have declared open warfare on the Terran Empire. No longer will we turn a blind eye to the crimes of these aliens. No longer will we allow enemies to strike at the heart of us.”_

A susurrus of agreement swept through his audience. The camera gave a panning shot of people nodding in agreement, one or two clapping to emphasise the sentiment.

_“By Imperial decree, Starfleet has been authorised to prepare for active engagement. Effective immediately, commercial travel throughout the Alpha Quadrant is terminated. Military presence in all systems is to be increased, both within Starfleet vessels and positioned planetside on all local worlds. Anyone suspected of aiding, conspiring with, or otherwise sympathising with the Romulan-Klingon rebels will be detained at the discretion of Starfleet operatives.”_

Jim could translate that last part easily enough. All non-human citizens had just been declared de facto suspects. While Earth didn’t exactly have a high xeno population to begin with, he suspected it would be dwindling even further soon enough.

Onscreen, Archer was quiet for a protracted moment, pointedly looking into each attentive face and then the camera which hovered a short height above them. His eyes were hard.

_“I have only one final announcement to make. And while I’m sure there will be those among us who raise voices in dissent, I have faith that the majority will strive to remember the thousands of innocent lives lost on this single day, and embrace the necessity of what must now be done._

_“As of the moment this broadcast airs, compulsory conscription into Starfleet military is reinstated throughout the Empire.”_

There was an immediate outcry from the gathered crowd. The reporters in the front row all began asking questions at once, hopelessly talking over each other. The cadets present looked surprised, whispering to each other and to their superior officers. But the biggest uproar came from those at the back and far edges, the everyday citizens who’d come to watch. Their voices rose in chaotic protest, panicked, angry, indistinguishable. The camera seemed to lose audio for a minute, in a blatant display of censorship.

On his podium, Archer waited with his hands clasped behind his back, perfectly unmoved by the riotous reception. He remained like that for an almost unbearable amount of time, silent and implacable. Only when the shouting finally settled, and his audience stood there tense and unhappy and waiting like chastised children, did he finally deign to speak again.

 _“I take no pleasure in exposing civilians to the grim reality of war, but in order to combat the growing threat of the Romulan-Klingon alliance, this is the step we must take. Conscription implants have already been distributed to law enforcement officers, and in the coming days will be issued to all eligible persons capable of defending this Empire. You will be given further details of assignments upon receiving your implant._ Terra Magnum Imperium.”

He left the podium, and the camera swept to a neutral view of the Starfleet Headquarters building.

Jim found himself on his feet, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

“They can’t do this!”

He turned to Nyota in disbelief, needing to see his own reaction mirrored. She did look shocked, but nowhere near the horrified outrage Jim felt was justified here.

“What the hell? Tell me they can’t do this!”

“Well... Conscription hasn’t been sanctioned since the First Contact War, but -”

“Fuck Starfleet, I’m not being dragged into a war I couldn’t give a shit about!”

He stalked furiously across the room, then back towards the bed, then to the door. “How are you not more angry about this?!” he demanded eventually, throwing his arms out to demonstrate the full scale of the injustice. “ _Conscription_ , Nyota. They might as well call us canon fodder!”

She tossed him a haughty glare. “Speak for yourself. When we met I had every intention of joining Starfleet, remember? That’s why I was at the shipyard in the first place. So maybe that plan just got a little... delayed.”

He scoffed, amazed at her naivety. “You’re not gonna be an officer or a specialist, you know. You’ll be a _conscript_. If you’re lucky, they’ll give you a phaser before they throw you at the Klingon horde.”

She frowned.

“Our life expectancies _literally_ just got cut short, you understand that, right?!” He walked over to her and gripped her shoulders, then the sides of her neck, pressing his forehead against hers. “Yota, this isn’t a good thing. It’s not an opportunity. Starfleet doesn’t care about the likes of you and me. We get caught up in this, we die.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” she said, but she seemed to have thawed a little. She thumped him in the chest with the heel of her hand. “And stop being so damn sappy. Get off me, Kirk.”

He flashed her a grin as he backed up. “That’s my girl.”

“Shut up.”

He glanced around the room, then seemed to come to a decision. “So I’m thinking we should pack.”

“What?”

“We should just... take off, get out of here.”

“And go where?”

“I don’t know, anywhere! Just as long as it’s not sitting around here waiting for someone to knock on the door and drag me off to fight fucking Romulans and Klingons.” Even as he ranted, he slid open a concealed storage space in the wall and tugged out an empty travel bag, tossing it onto the bed. Then he went to the dresser, opening each of the drawers and flinging anything that looked even vaguely necessary in the bag’s general direction. Underwear, shirts and a second pair of jeans tumbled haphazardly through the air.

“It’ll be great,” he went on, distracted in trying to shift through some junk on the floor to find his PADD. “We’ll do what we said. Get to a city, use the scanners, stay anonymous. We do that long enough, this whole thing will have blown over before we have to worry.”

Nyota rolled her eyes. “The Empire just went to war, it’s not ‘blowing over’ any time soon.”

“Would it kill you to help?!”

Sighing, she set about folding the clothes he’d tossed her way and placing them quickly into the bag. “Any of my stuff coming with us, or is your collection of drop-out chic too extensive?”

He threw her bra at her head.

They moved round the house at a whirlwind pace, grabbing up clothes, valuables and necessary gadgets. Nyota used the replicator to produce a stash of food that would travel well for at least a few days and stuffed it all into air-sealed bags. When she was done, Jim had the presence of mind to remember to switch off the house’s main power supply. It felt strangely final, and he wondered for the first time if he’d ever have cause to come back here.

Their frantic preparations were done in just under an hour. Jim hoisted his bag over a shoulder. “You’re sure you want to come with me, then?”

Nyota looked up from where she was making the final adjustments to her own bag, giving a humourless smirk. “Where else do I have to go?”

He took that as the enthusiastic agreement he was sure she’d intended. “I’ll be outside. Don’t be long, I want to get going before it’s dark.”

He skipped quickly down the stairs, out through the front door and into the mild Iowa evening. He was just beginning to consider the logistics of getting both of them and their luggage onto his single bike when he saw it.

Jim froze halfway down the driveway, travel bag hanging heavy in his hand.

Standing in front of its own bike, the robotic officer scanned up and down the length of him, before its synthesised voice announced, “Your physical appearance falls within the parameters of one James Tiberius Kirk, the recorded occupant of this residence. Is this an accurate identification?”

“...No?” Jim tried, hopeful.

The officer ignored his negative response, apparently holding more confidence in its own facial recognition abilities. It walked closer to him, heavy soled boots kicking up dust clouds.

“This unit is hereby charged with informing you that due to your current lack of gainful employment, you are considered by Imperial authorities to be a priority candidate for conscription into Starfleet military.” His faceless helmet tipped slightly to one side. “Congratulations, citizen.”

“Congratulations?” Jim repeated faintly, very nearly impressed that he’d just been sassed by a robot. Surely this wasn’t happening, not _for real_. Since when was any new government policy _this_ fucking efficient? He shook his head. “Look, I _absolutely_ have gainful employment. I work at... at this bar down the road.”

“Your last registered occupation was terminated four hundred, seventy two days ago, due to repeated incidents of petty theft.”

“It’s a _clerical error_ , you walking heap of scrap metal! I have a job!”

“If this is indeed the case, you may appeal your conscription through Starfleet channels. Should your former occupation be deemed a valuable contribution to society, you may be released from your obligations prematurely. At this time, however, this unit is required to administer your Starfleet conscription implant.”

The officer raised its right arm, and something that looked like an unholy cross-breed of hypo and weapon slid smoothly from the metal joint of its wrist.

Jim dropped his bag, almost tripping over it in his haste to back away. “You’re not _implanting_ me with -”

It moved faster than he was expecting, closing the distance between them before Jim even had a chance to react, and when it grasped his wrist it might as well have clamped a manacle on him. He tried to pull away in sudden panic, his heels digging into the ground, but if the officer even noticed his struggling it didn’t show.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_! I am _not_ consenting to this -!”

Completely unperturbed, it proceeded to angle the injection point of its terrifying looking hardware to the inside of Jim’s elbow. There was a soft mechanical hiss, a split second of disbelief, and then pain shot through his forearm.

He yanked away in horror. This time the officer let him go without protest, and Jim landed on his ass in the dirt. He grasped his arm, staring at it like it was suddenly a foreign appendage. “No, no, nonono...!” A pinprick of blood beaded on his skin, drying even as he watched.

“You are to report to Starfleet Headquarters, located in San Francisco, California, within a week of receiving your Starfleet conscription implant. Any travel expenses incurred may be reclaimed from Starfleet. Failure to appear will result in an enforcement officer such as this unit locating and escorting you to Starfleet Headquarters. Tampering with or attempting to remove your Starfleet conscription implant is a crime punishable by time served in a penal colony after your service to the Empire is completed.

“Your cooperation is appreciated, citizen.”

Jim just squinted up at it, too stunned to feel anger yet. There was a noise behind him, and he looked back over his shoulder to see Nyota standing in the doorway, obviously having just witnessed the whole incident. Her mouth was pressed into a tense thin line.

The officer’s helmet tipped slowly up and down in that unnerving scanning motion as its attention turned on her. “Your physical appearance falls within the parameters of one Nyota Penda Uhura. Is this an accurate identification?”

She remained scornfully silent.

“You have neglected to update your official place of residence for three hundred, thirteen days. This unit’s databases indicate you still reside within the African Confederacy. This is inaccurate. You are also without gainful employment.”

“Let me guess - I’m a priority candidate too?”

“Affirmative. This unit will now administer your Starfleet conscription implant.”

It stepped over Jim and moved towards her. Evidently she’d noticed exactly how useless his escape attempt had been, and elected instead to maintain her dignity. She remained still and poised as it clamped a metallic hand around her wrist and injected a second implant into her forearm, only her glacial expression betraying her distaste.

Task done, the officer began to repeat its terms and conditions speech.

She sneered. “I heard your spiel the first time.”

It ignored her.

Only when it had completed a second rendition of its programmed speech did it retreat, stomping mechanically back towards its hoverbike without a backward glance. They watched as it mounted the vehicle, shifted into gear, and guided the bike serenely away from Jim’s house. The whine of its engine grew quiet as the officer reached the highway and took off in the direction of the shipyard. When it disappeared completely, all that could be heard was the faint rustle of cornstalks in the breeze and a bird flapping somewhere overhead.

Jim stood up, still holding his arm away from himself like it was something repulsive. He walked back into the house, pushing roughly past Nyota. She turned and followed him.

“What are you doing? Jim, stop, leave it alone.”

He let out a mildly hysterical laugh. “Leave it alone? Screw that, I told you I’m _not_ joining Starfleet. I’ll cut the fucking thing out if I have to.”

He reached the kitchen, striding immediately to the utensil drawer and pulling it open so forcefully it nearly came off its sliders. He fumbled through the contents, looking for a sharp enough knife.

Nyota dragged him back. “Don’t be so stupid. The thing’s microscopic. You’ll butcher yourself long before you find it.”

“Well I have to do _something_!” He cast around helplessly for inspiration. “What about McCoy? How much credit you think it’ll cost to get him to take it out?”

“They’ll arrest you both if you try it,” she pointed out, infuriatingly reasonable. “And anyway, in all likelihood he’s got his own implant to worry about by now. They’re going to snatch up doctors, alcoholic or otherwise.”

“Well what do _you_ suggest?”

“I...” She chewed her lip, then visibly deflated. “I don’t know. But _slicing it out_ isn’t an option.”

Running wasn’t an option either, now. There was no doubt in Jim’s head that the implants were traceable. He slumped back against the counter, scratching aggressively at the pinprick cut on his arm. His mind raced, looking frantically for an escape route like an animal trapped in a snare, but over and over it kept running into the same looming, unhelpful thought.

He didn’t want to die a Starfleet footsoldier.

“What if we could disable them somehow?” Nyota said abruptly.

Jim squinted at her. “What?”

“Well, we could leave them in but try and stop them working. An EMP maybe. Or a sonic pulse? It’d have to be something we were _sure_ would work. We’d only get one shot.”

“And we’d have to be ready to get the hell out of dodge right afterwards,” he added, snatching up the beginnings of the idea and turning it over for inspection. He looked at his arm. “How fast do you think their response time would be? Not like we can afford a test run.”

“No, but we could give ourselves a head start if we -”

She fell silent.

Jim waited for her to finish the thought, distracted in trying to organise all the shiny new ideas appearing in his head. When she remained quiet, he glanced up.

His breath caught in surprise.

White light was coalescing all around her. Nyota was staring down at herself in bemusement and growing alarm.

“Yota!”

He reached out to grab her, and it was only then he noticed that the motes of light were circulating around himself as well.

Instinctively, they both turned to run, to try and outpace the transportation energy, but it was already too late. Jim couldn’t see for light, couldn’t feel his kitchen floor beneath his feet - and then he knew nothing at all, disappearing into the atmosphere in a final flare of radiance.

 

* * *

 

 

They materialised in a cage barely big enough to hold both of them.

It was nearly pitch black, wherever they were, and he squinted blindly out into the darkness. His hands groped around and found metal bars on all sides. Next to him, Nyota did the same. He could feel her quickened breath on his neck. Neither of them dared make a sound, all senses straining for some sign of where they were. Some half-crazed part of Jim thought maybe they’d been overheard plotting their escape, and been beamed directly to the penal colony the officer had threatened them with. In growing desperation, he wrapped his fingers around two of the bars and tried shaking. When they didn’t so much as vibrate, he steeled himself and called out, “Hello?”

They waited.

Out in the darkness, footsteps padded closer. A figure seemed to slide right out of the shadows in front of them, and both Jim and Nyota pressed themselves back against the far wall of their cage at the sight of him. This wasn’t a Starfleet penal colony, Jim realised pretty quickly.

With his pointed ears, severe brows and tattooed face, the grinning Romulan looked like a nightmare straight out of Imperial propaganda.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

**Stardate 2255.223.**

**The Nerada.**

**Coordinates unknown.**

 

Spock had been walking when the transporter beam took him. Upon re-materialisation, he managed to halt his own momentum promptly enough to avoid collision with the bars abruptly surrounding him, although his companion wasn’t quite so fortuitous. Doctor McCoy swore loudly as he crashed into the front wall of their cage, falling back against Spock in surprise. He then proceeded to thrash about the dark, confined space, radiating alarm.

With his superior Vulcan vision, Spock didn’t need to map out his new surroundings through blind fumbling. He immediately took note of the restrictive dimensions of the cage around them, identified James Kirk and Nyota in a similar predicament to their right, and warily observed the three armed Romulan guards standing a short distance away. All this was catalogued in an instant, and he then spared a moment to try and form these disparate facts into a coherent explanation for what had just occurred. He was disconcerted when nothing presented itself.

“Spock? That you? Where the ever loving hell are we?”

“Spock?” repeated Kirk from his respective cage, trying to peer through the gloom. “McCoy?”

It quickly became apparent that none of the Terrans possessed any meaningful range of vision in the dim environment as all three began to call out to each other in confusion, establishing identity and location. It was only Spock who could see their Romulan guards exchanging amused glances.

“Where are we?” Doctor McCoy asked again.

“Best guess?” Kirk drawled. “Romulan ship.”

“What?!”

Spock kept his attention on the guards, still determinedly trying to calculate the most likely scenario. Kirk’s estimation that they were aboard a vessel seemed accurate, as he could detect the faint vibrations of an engine somewhere beneath them. That it was Romulan was also probable, given their recent presence in the system and the obvious ethnicity of the guards. In fact, Spock’s only objection to the assumption was that it made no _sense_.

He drew closer to the neighbouring cage, lowering his voice. “How long have you been here?”

“About an hour?” Nyota answered.

“Has there been any indication of what they want with us?”

“No, they haven’t spoken to us yet, just... left us here.”

“You are mistaken,” he informed her quietly. “They have not left.”

The Terrans fell silent, a frisson of unease passing over them. They had effectively been rendered helpless by the lack of light, Spock realised; prey clustered in the darkness, unable even to sense the nearness of danger.

The doors of the room suddenly slid open, light from the corridor dazzling all of them. Spock squinted against the sting, watching as another Romulan entered. Their three guards saluted sharply at the sight of him. The newcomer ignored them, eyes fixed intently on Spock.

“You’re finally here,” the Romulan said, sounding almost reverent.

“Where the fuck is ‘here’ and why do you want us?” Kirk demanded, bristling with aggression. While Spock wouldn’t have phrased it in quite those words, he agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment.

The Romulan didn’t even glance Kirk’s way, apparently uninterested in anyone but Spock. He made a beckoning gesture. “Get him out of there.”

Immediately, two of the guards jumped to obey. They opened the cage door with a swipe of a hand-held device, reached inside and dragged Spock out unceremoniously. When Doctor McCoy tried to follow, he was given a casual shove and crashed back against the bars with a pained groan. Spock found himself manhandled forward and presented to the Romulan as though for inspection.

“Spock. It’s been a while.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I was unaware we’d ever been acquainted. I’m certain I would remember.”

The Romulan only made a sceptical sound and turned to leave the room. Spock was prompted to follow by a weapon pressed to the small of his back. As they left, he could hear Kirk yelling after them with a note of panic in his voice.

“Hey! You can’t just _leave_ us here! Come the _fuck_ back!”

The doors slid shut on him, silencing his protests.

They walked in single file, past other Romulan crew who stared with undisguised curiosity. Spock studied them in turn, noting the lack of uniform, the mismatched pieces of armour, the general lack of discipline - until one of the guards jabbed him in the back again, and he turned his gaze forward.

“My name is Nero, by the way. Captain of the _Nerada_.”

Spock filed away the information, but made no effort to reply. He was too absorbed in examining the ship’s interior. They had obviously been kept on a lower deck, likely intended for storage and transport if the crates of supplies stacked around the edges of the corridors were anything to judge by. Cables ran loose along the floor, tangled in places and damaged in others. Sometimes whole wall panels had been removed to expose the wiring beneath.

Nero led them to a turbolift and they ascended for several seconds. When they disembarked, it was to enter a room that seemed to function as the captain’s quarters. It was barren and sparse, a flat pallet bed on one side of the room and a metal table in the middle.

“Leave us,” Nero ordered, and the other Romulans withdrew, allowing the doors to slide shut behind Spock. He stood tense and waiting, unsure what to expect.

“Have a seat,” the Romulan instructed, moving to occupy one of the two metal chairs himself.

Spock hesitated for a moment, before realising that little he did or did not do here was likely to restore any control of the situation to him. He complied, lowering himself cautiously until he was eye to eye with the Romulan captain.

“Why am I here?”

“You’re here because I demand it. Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you, Spock? How many years wasted?”

Bemused, the Vulcan tilted his head in question.

“When you didn’t join Starfleet in 2250, I assumed you’d remained on Vulcan. I must have scanned that entire sand-blasted planet. I even interrogated a few of your oh-so-logical kin, when I could get my hands on them. Imagine my surprise when not a one among them seemed aware that a half-breed even existed, let alone where I could find him. You’re nothing very special in this universe, are you Mister Spock?”

He felt annoyance and quickly pushed it down.

“I remain unaware of how you claim to know me.”

Nero continued speaking as if he hadn’t been interrupted.

“I was starting to give up hope. With this infernal Terran Empire crushing every half-intelligent species under its boot heel, maybe you’d never even been born! It’s illegal now, isn’t it? Interspecies procreation? You’re a strange little abomination to most, aren’t you?”

Spock lifted his chin. The anger was harder to repress this time, an old primal thing that had been with him since childhood. He stayed silent, afraid he would betray himself if he spoke.

“And after all my effort, it was only coincidence I finally heard rumours of you. Do you know how galling that is? Took out a Starfleet surveillance ship that came too close to Romulus, swept up the survivors. I’ve made sure it’s always common practice for my men to ask after a half-Vulcan freak when they’re interrogating prisoners, but I hardly expected some lowly ensign to start babbling about how he grew up in a _Terran orphanage_ with that very same halfbreed.”

Spock frowned. “You are implying that _you_ were responsible for this morning’s attack on the juvenile care facility... simply because _I_ was raised there?”

Nero gave a sharp, unpleasant smile. “Oh no, Spock. I blew it up because you were gone already, and they were careless enough not to keep records of where I could find you. I’m afraid my patience these days isn’t what it used to be.”

The Vulcan stared, struggling to process the admission.

“But it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? Starfleet can be wonderfully efficient when you’re least expecting it. There I was trying to figure out how I was going to scan that human-infested planet while the entire system is bristling with Imperial firepower - and instead you just... appear on my computer system. A Starfleet conscript. And not just you, but the great James T. Kirk and his associates. I’ll admit, I’m curious to meet them.”

“I... can only infer that you are mistaken in your perception of us. James Kirk falls short of ‘great’ by any definition of the word. He is a petty thief and con-artist - not even especially skilled in those fields, from what little I know of him. I fail to see how he, Nyota, Doctor McCoy, or indeed myself could be of any interest to you.”

Nero threw back his head and laughed, slapping the table between them like Spock had shared an infinitely amusing joke.

“I keep being surprised by the differences here. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

“Differences?”

The Romulan smiled, cold and slow. “The biggest shock was this... _Terran_ Empire. Tell me, how were humans allowed to become the ruling class in this universe?”

“The Terran Empire was established during the First Contact War almost two hundred years ago. How can this possibly come as a ‘shock’?”

“I gather you Vulcans let them steal their first spaceship from you. Typical of your kind - you just can’t help but interfere, can you?”

Spock felt like he was rapidly losing the thread of this exchange. He was accustomed to the frequent non-sequiturs and false starts of human communication, but this felt different. It was as though he was missing an entire dimension of the conversation.

“I must ask again why I - we - have been brought here. We have no affiliation with your rebellion, nor have we actively opposed it.”

Nero’s whole demeanour changed then. The façade of amusement fell away, and his feverish glare bore into Spock with discomforting intensity.

“No. All you did was let my planet burn.”

The Vulcan revised his earlier theory. He was not missing anything. Nero was clearly suffering a delusional disorder.

“I was under the impression that Romulus was faring well, taking into account its exclusion from the Empire.”

Nero sneered. “You think that pathetic shadow of my world is ‘faring well’?” He leaned across the table, lowering his voice to a furious hiss. “I got here to find them grovelling in the dirt to their human masters. Humiliated. _Impotent_. I’ve had to drag them kicking and screaming to their freedom. My once-proud Romulus...”

“And how does any of that relate to myself?”

Nero stood up, metal chair clattering backwards. He stalked around the table until he loomed over Spock. “Always the same. Even here, even in this miserable, _pathetic_ version of yourself - that arrogance, always the same.” He leaned down, hot breath unpleasant against the Vulcan’s ear. “I’m telling you, Spock. It’ll get you killed one day.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jim tried to make himself comfortable, stretching his legs out across the floor until his boots pressed against the opposite wall of the cage. Bars dug painfully into his back as he tried to lean against them, but there wasn’t a whole lot of options in terms of space. Nyota sat next to him, her arms wrapped tightly around her drawn up knees. At least, he thought that was how she was sitting from what he could feel of her at his side. He still couldn’t make out much in the dark.

“Why’d they have to turn off the lights?” he complained, mostly just for the sake of something to say. With nobody making much sound, he was starting to feel deaf as well as blind.

“It’s called sensory deprivation,” McCoy’s disembodied voice growled from the next cage. “Bastards are trying to loosen us up for something.”

“Like what?”

“Hell if I know. I’m still mostly convinced this is all a drunken hallucination on my part.”

Unseen, Jim rolled his eyes.

They lapsed again into silence. Without the distraction of conversation, the darkness bothered him. It felt like a physical thing; a weight; a blindfold pressed too tightly on his eyes. He kept blinking in the expectation of clearing his vision, unable to convince his brain to accept the situation.

“Why do you think they took the Vulcan?” he asked at length, needing something else to focus on.

He felt Nyota shrug. “Maybe he knows them? That Romulan called him by name.”

“You think he’s working with the rebellion?”

McCoy snorted dismissively. “Spock’s not a sympathiser, trust me.”

“How do you know? He’s xeno. Maybe -”

“Not every xeno wants to trade the Empire for Romulan and Klingon overlords. And anyway, Spock got marched out of here with a gun in his back, in case neither of you noticed. Didn’t seem like a friendly reunion to me.”

Jim conceded the point reluctantly. He let his head fall back in frustration, resting between two of the bars. “Why the hell are we here? Seriously, what the _fuck_ do Romulans want with us? I’m open to wild speculation.” One minute they were being packed off to war, the next they were aboard the enemy ship. His head was still spinning. “You’d think unwilling conscription would be the big drama of the day...”

“You got chipped as well, did you?” McCoy muttered. “Robo-cop turned up at the shipyard and got us too.”

Jim turned in the doctor’s general direction. “What, you and Spock? So it _is_ related to us being here. Too much of a coincidence that we all got implants minutes before being beamed up.”

“Well, it wasn’t just us. It picked out anyone not ‘adequately contributing to society’ and injected them on the spot. And Spock just because he’s xeno, I think. Automatically a waste to society on this planet.”

It still couldn’t be a coincidence, Jim thought, although for the life of him he couldn’t think of anything that made them particularly special.

“Wait, isn’t this a good thing?” McCoy asked.

“How so?”

“Starfleet use these things to track us, right? They’ll know we’ve been taken. Might send help.”

“For four unimportant losers?” Jim scoffed.

“Anyway,” Nyota added, sounding despondent. “It’s far more likely they’ll think we’re deserters and sympathisers who escaped conscription on a Romulan ship.”

Jim winced. She was right.

Nyota huffed a breath. “Well, if I ever _was_ supposed to join Starfleet, there went my last chance.”

He felt a twinge of guilt, although he wasn’t really sure why. It hadn’t been his fault she’d changed her mind. He lowered his voice, trying for as much privacy as their enclosure allowed. “Why didn’t you? Join Starfleet, I mean. You said you were going to, when we met...”

She didn’t answer at first, but he heard her shifting restlessly. She straightened her legs across the floor, stretching forward like she was trying to touch her toes, and stayed like that for a minute or so as if debating how to answer.

“I suppose it just... felt like a trap,” she whispered eventually. “I wanted more freedom than a Starfleet uniform and a lifetime commission. Playing games with you wasn’t exactly the limitless easy money I thought it was going to be, but at least I made my own decisions.” She gave a bitter little laugh. “Of course, I say that from inside a _cage_ , so...”

“We’ll get out of here,” he promised, with all the surety of someone who simply couldn’t accept another outcome.

 

* * *

 

 

The interface on the captain’s door beeped twice. Nero glanced towards it, then back at Spock. “Stand up. We have company.”

The Romulan rose smoothly from his chair and strode across the room, long leather coat sweeping behind him. He slapped a button on the control panel and the doors slid open, admitting into the room the three guards who had previously escorted him - and standing between them, another Vulcan.

Spock got to his feet warily as they entered. The Vulcan was staring at him, so Spock studied him in turn. In truth, he had never had occasion to see another of his kind outside a computer screen. This one was elderly, deep lines etched across his solemn face. Steel grey hair was immaculately cut and combed above stern, upswept brows and dark eyes. He looked familiar, but Spock supposed that was a consequence of finally meeting someone of his own racial ethnicity.

The older Vulcan looked towards Nero sharply. “What is this? Why is he here?”

The Romulan smiled. “I’m not sure how I should classify this. A family reunion? A self-examination? What do you think, Spock?”

Spock opened his mouth to reply that he had no notion of what was being implied, but Nero didn’t appear to be addressing him. He was looking expectantly at the older Vulcan, who seemed anything but amused.

“Return him to where you found him. He has nothing to do with this. Your vendetta is with me.”

Nero sneered. “The same act is in the heart of him. He is as capable as you. Why should he not suffer punishment?”

“Because he has not yet _acted_! Nero, he is not even aware of what we speak.”

The Romulan gave a nod of acknowledgement. “I admit, that is a problem. That’s why you’re here. Show him.”

The Vulcan looked affronted. “I will not.”

“You say that like you have a choice, Spock.” He gave a lazy gesture, and in a heartbeat his men had guns pointed steadily at both their heads.

Spock’s thoughts raced, but still he could see no means of gaining any control of the rapidly devolving situation. Nero was unstable, irrational, and quite obviously delusional, and the other Vulcan seemed to be doing little but antagonising him.

When no reaction to the threat was forthcoming, Nero shrugged and drawled, “Shoot one of them.”

Almost instantly, one of the weapons discharged with a flash of light. The beam struck Spock’s shoulder. He grunted as searing pain spread through him. The fabric of his shirt smouldered, and beneath it ugly green burn blisters broke out across his flesh. He clenched his jaw, struggling not to act on the burst of rage which almost overcame him.

“Shall we take turns?” Nero asked mockingly. “I’m told disruptor burns are quite agonising. I wonder which of you will break first, youth or wisdom.”

“Enough.” The Vulcan drew himself up as though shouldering a burden. “You have made your point.”

“I’m disappointed. I thought that would take much longer.”

The Vulcan ignored the taunt, turning instead towards Spock. He stepped closer. “I apologise in advance for what I must do. This will not be a pleasant experience.”

And all of a sudden, Spock realised what was about to happen. He backed away until he hit the edge of the metal table. “Do not touch me.”

The guards promptly descended on him, grabbing at his arms and burned shoulder. They dragged him forward, thoroughly ignoring his struggles to free himself. He managed to drive his elbow into someone’s stomach, and was given a backhand in retaliation. When the other Vulcan came to stand before him, the Romulans pinioned his arms to his side. He turned his face away in desperation.

The Vulcan paused with his hand outstretched. “While this is not how I would have preferred our first meeting to take place, I can assure you that you have no reason to fear me. I do not intend to harm you.”

“You are wrong,” Spock hissed. “Enter my mind and I will show you just how little I _fear_ you.”

The Vulcan looked sad, of all the uncalled for reactions, but it didn’t stop him from closing the distance between them and placing his fingers firmly over Spock’s face.

“My mind to your mind.”

Instantly, Spock felt himself slammed backwards by the alien presence that entered his mindspace. It was massive, immovable, ancient. He threw up mental barriers in haste, but there was no indication the invading presence even noticed them as it broke through and spilled into all of Spock. He recoiled from the violation, spitting and snarling defiance, scrambling away into the darkest corners of his mind in search of escape.

 _Calm yourself. I do not seek to harm you,_ the Other repeated.

Spock summoned fury and hurled it at the presence. His own telepathic skills were not nearly well honed enough to communicate in a similar coherent manner.

Muted confusion drifted back to him. _You do not believe me? Allow me then to first show you the truth of who I am, that we may proceed peacefully._

He did not know how to brace himself for the sudden influx of foreign memory. A thousand, a hundred thousand flashes of a world not his own poured over him. They were without order or sense. A desert; a starship; a human mother smiling at him as she touched his face. Friends colour coded red and yellow and blue and precious gold. He was a science officer of Starfleet, loyal to a Federation Spock didn’t recognise. He was fighting with a phaser in hand, a spear in hand, both hands wrapped around his captain’s throat as they grappled in the dirt. Tipsy on chocolate and Vulcan port. He was dying of radiation poisoning, trapped behind glass with his hand pressed to that of his t’hy’la. What was t’hy’la? The Vulcan language rolled off his tongue and Spock didn’t understand a word of it. His vibrant, golden captain was tipping a smile over his shoulder and saying with easy confidence, _You have the con, Mister Spock._

He reeled away from the torrent of memory feeling like he couldn’t breathe.

 _Do you understand now?_ the Other asked patiently. _I am you. We are one and the same. You may trust me as you would yourself._

It was a lie, Spock thought immediately. A trick, a trap. Whoever this Vulcan was, they were certainly not ‘one and the same’, and nothing Spock had seen in the flood of false recollection could convince him otherwise.

_How do you doubt me? One cannot lie in the meld, you know this._

Spock lashed out, wanting only for the Other to be gone from his mindspace. He formed mental claws and tore into the presence, seeking to wound, seeking to _hurt_ and send it fleeing Spock’s head in self defence. He thrashed and writhed and fought with all his will.

And still it was as nothing when the Other clamped down around him, crushing him small and still.

_Stop this. You do more damage to yourself than to me._

Spock seethed, completely unable to free himself. He settled instead on projecting sullen resentment.

The Other seemed to deliberate for an uncertain amount of time. Then it said, _I must now view your memories as I have shared mine. There is something I must determine before we go any further._

Spock tried to shout a protest, but he was ignored.

Unbidden, Terran children flashed to the forefront of his mind, the ones who had pulled his hair and flicked his ears and viciously pinched the back of his hands when they’d realised they were sensitive. And when he’d retaliated, the horrified expressions of adults all around him; the way they’d flinched back as though he was a small monster in their midst. Spock had seen the truth of humans then, their weakness and fear and petty hatreds.

Then had come the isolation. Sitting at a computer terminal most days listening to recorded lectures on Vulcan culture - what little was known of it. The educational holo-vids were made by Terrans who stumbled over the alien language and filled gaps in their knowledge with pretentious sweeping statements and guesses. They had known that pure Vulcans did not feel emotion, and so a councillor had been assigned to instruct him in the purging and repression of all sentiment. He had failed her lessons often. His telepathy had been something discovered and explored solely through trial and error. Snippets of thought and feeling he stole from anyone he touched. Ultimately, aversion to contact had been the only sensible defence.

A summary of his childhood and adolescence streamed before his mind’s eye in this manner, and he was helpless to call any of it back. His humiliations and vulnerabilities were held up for examination by the Other, before being passed over as though found wanting.

Abruptly, the smothering force holding him relented somewhat. It still did not leave his mindspace, but certainly seemed to diminish.

_I apologise. I had not realised the true inequality of our telepathic abilities, due to your lack of training._

The Other found and lingered over the memory of what he had done to Smiles, all those years ago. The Terran’s blank stare, and Spock’s savage triumph in ripping his mind open. He could feel the Other’s undisguised horror emanating around their shared mindspace.

_I was indeed wrong. You and I are... not the same. I will endeavour to be more careful in my assumptions of you._

Spock waited cautiously. There was a distinct chill to the presence now, a disapproval, even dislike.

_Nevertheless, I will share with you the reason for your, and my, being here. I suggest you prepare yourself. Emotional transfer is common._

And that was all the warning Spock had before being plunged into the Other’s memories for a second time.

_Be calm. I will guide you this time._

Spock was streaming through the stars, across the countless lightyears he had travelled in his long life. Past the hundreds of planets he had set foot on, the worlds he had helped save and change. It was beautiful, and lonely, and felt like home. Then he saw it. An inferno burning in the black void of space.

_One hundred and twenty nine years from now a star will explode, threatening to destroy the galaxy. That time is where I’m from._

Spock watched the supernova with something like awe. It had broken free of its gravitational bounds and was roaring free, a stellar explosion set to destroy all in its path.

_I promised the Romulans I would save their planet._

There had been little sacrifice in volunteering to take the risk. His friends were long dead, his purpose wavering in their absence. Should he go to join them while performing one last act of reckless heroism - a crime he had often levelled at the captain’s feet - then so be it.

_We outfitted our fastest ship. Using something called red matter, I would create a black hole which would absorb the explosion._

It was new technology, largely untested, but there had been little option but to rely on its success. It had been fitted into his one-man ship and he’d flown off into the light of a dying star.

_I was on route when the unthinkable happened. Romulus was destroyed._

The destruction of a planet was horrendous. It crumbled under the blast of the supernova like so much dirt, billions of lives obliterated in a matter of seconds. His guilt was almost numbing. It had taken all his Vulcan self-possession to continue his mission in an orderly, efficient manner.

_I had little time. I extracted the red matter and shot it into the supernova. Then, as I began my return trip, I was intercepted. He called himself Nero._

The Romulan mining vessel seemed to appear from nowhere, haling him to demand what had happened. Terrible grief had turned so quickly to fury as Spock had tried to explain that there was nothing he could have done.

_In my attempt to escape, we were both pulled into the growing black hole. Nero went through first, and so was the first to arrive in this universe. I understand he has been here a number of years already._

Spock thought of the Romulan ship that had destroyed the Kelvin in 2233, the subsequent Romulan uprising, the escalating attacks on Starfleet and the Empire. All Nero’s doing.

_But what was years for Nero was only seconds for me. The black hole must have stabilised to some degree in the moments between our passage, accounting for the time difference. I emerged only weeks ago, to find Nero waiting here for me. He took me captive and has held me ever since - for what reason I cannot tell you, although I suspect._

Spock was released from the succession of memories, gently this time. The Other seemed to pause, granting him a chance to acclimatise and integrate the new knowledge. Dozens of questions sprang to mind, though surprisingly few of them actually concerned the destruction of Romulus. What truly perplexed Spock was that version of himself he kept glimpsing - someone who wore a Starfleet uniform with pride; whose expertise and knowledge were held in such high regard; who stood side by side with humans in fierce and mutual loyalty. In what possible universe could he have been that man?

_As you can see, my failure is the reason for his hatred of us._

Spock turned his mind from such useless speculation and back to the problem at hand. The disaster of Romulus had been nothing to do with _him_ , he thought adamantly. _He_ was not part of that other reality, _he_ had not allowed a planet to burn.

_Hatred is rarely logical._

And then the Other was finally gone, and Spock was left blissfully alone in his head again. He dropped to his knees, unprepared for the wave of exhaustion which broke over him. Green blood trickled from his nose and down his shirt, and pain blossomed behind his eyes.

Little more than a minute had passed.

“Is it done?” Nero asked, standing over him.

“He knows.”

Spock levelled a hostile glare at the other Vulcan - the other him. “You are not me,” he grated out, stubborn. “Your crime is not mine.”

The guards once again grasped his arms and hauled him upright, turning him roughly to face Nero. The Romulan captain looked stone-faced. “As one of the few surviving victims, I believe I reserve the right to that judgement.”

“But I have never -”

“Put him back with the others.” They dragged him out, and the last thing Spock saw before the doors slid shut was the look of infuriating, impotent regret on his other self’s face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter include a particularly violent facial injury, and attempted sexual assault. While rape doesn’t occur, the scene is written to be fearful and uncomfortable, and includes non-consensual touching.

 

 

**Stardate 2255.224.**

**The _Nerada._**

**Coordinates unknown.**

 

“Why the hell do your eyes glow?”

There was a bemused silence for a few seconds, then the glowing eyes in question blinked. “Excuse me?”

Irritably, Jim shoved himself up into a sitting position. “Your eyes. They glow in the dark. Like a cat’s. I’m trying to sleep over here and all I can see is your creepy ass glowing eyes staring at me.”

He could practically _hear_ the disapproving frown his complaint was met with.

“I was not staring at anything in particular, least of all you,” the Vulcan insisted primly. “And the glow you refer to is likely caused by the tapetum lucidum in my eyes. It is a layer of tissue behind the retina which increases the light available to the photoreceptors, thereby granting me a measure of sight even in darkened environments.”

Jim stared blankly at where he thought the Vulcan was.

“...Incidentally, you are correct that the trait is shared by felines.”

“Oh my _god_.” Jim buried his face in his arms. He was tired and hungry and did not have the patience for this. Nyota was curled up on the floor of their cage next to him, asleep. McCoy hadn’t bitched about anything in well over an hour, so Jim assumed he was doing the same. He himself had been trying to rest for... Well, long enough that the sight of Spock’s eerie green-lit eyes in the dark had become just about the most obnoxious distraction he could imagine.

“Don’t you sleep?” he hissed through the bars.

“Not as often as humans, no. But if it puts you at ease, I shall close my eyes.”

“Forget it.” Jim rubbed his forehead, trying in vain yet again to find a comfortable position. Sleep was not happening. He leaned his shoulder against Spock’s side of the cage and kept his voice low so as not to wake the others. “What did Tattoos want with you, anyway?”

“He calls himself Nero.” The Vulcan seemed to hesitate, then added, “And he wanted nothing I could provide. As far as I could determine, the man has lost his grip on reality. He believes Romulus has been destroyed.”

Jim’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline. “Seriously?”

“Furthermore, he seems to believe that I am to blame for its destruction.”

Jim snorted quietly. “You been holding out on us? Who knew one day I’d be sharing a cell with the destroyer of worlds.”

“That is hardly amusing.”

“Sure it is! You spend your days working for tips and this guy thinks you _killed his planet_? That’s comedy gold.”

Jim wasn’t naive enough to accept the Vulcan’s dismissive explanation at face value. For one thing, Spock hadn’t accounted for how Nero knew his name. Still, he was willing to let it slide for now, at least until he had a better understanding of the situation - in particular, whether or not the Vulcan could be trusted.

“That why you came back here looking all roughed up?”

“He had me shot with a disruptor on a whim and beaten by his men.”

The humour drained from Jim rather quickly, at that. He slumped back against the bars, miserably considering the injustice of a universe that allowed them to be kidnapped from their homes by crazy aliens.

“What do you think he wants with the rest of us then? Fair enough, you took out his planet -”

“I did not -”

“- but what did _we_ do to him?”

“I’m sure you’d have to ask him yourself,” was the snippy reply.

They lapsed into troubled thoughts. In truth, Jim was scared of what the answer might be. He was doing his level best not to acknowledge it, but that didn’t change the fact. He’d been in his fair share of tight corners, gotten himself into more trouble than he could accurately recount, but this was... The whole situation seemed wildly surreal. If he didn’t strongly suspect he could die at any given minute, he’d have been tempted to laugh at it all. Beamed right out of his kitchen into the bowels of a Romulan terrorist ship.

“Alien bastards,” he muttered, with venom.

“You do not care for non-humans, do you?”

Jim shrugged awkwardly. “Never really gave it much thought. Although you’ll have to excuse me if I develop a bit of a Romulan prejudice after this.”

Spock made a short noise of either acknowledgement or agreement.

“For the love of god, don’t you two ever shut up?”

Jim twitched in surprise at the sound of McCoy’s groggy voice. There was a prolonged moment of shuffling, shifting, and scuffling as the doctor manoeuvred himself upright.

“You have our apologies, Doctor. I believed we were being sufficiently quiet.”

“Well think again. Christ, my head feels like someone took a plasma cannon to it.”

“You are likely experiencing the initial symptoms of detoxification.”

“That’s a hangover, to you and me,” Jim translated.

“No, I meant exactly what I said. Doctor McCoy is a steadfast alcoholic and is due to be experiencing severe withdrawal symptoms at any -”

“Goddamn it, Spock, stop talking.” McCoy sounded muffled, like he had hands up over his face. “I don’t need you describing every stage of hell I’m about to go through, I’m a doctor. I _know_.”

“As you prefer.”

“Ugh,” McCoy groaned. “I may throw up on you.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was some hours later when Jim awoke to searing pain in his eyes as the lights were turned on for the first time since they’d arrived. It hurt more than he was expecting, and seemed to take forever for him to be able to see clearly again. Groaning, he raised an arm over his face, disturbing Nyota who’d been using his shoulder as a pillow. She swatted at him in irritation.

He sat up, squinting around in confusion. For a few hazy seconds, he had no idea where he was or why he was there. He pressed at the bars in bemusement.

“Which one of you is Kirk?” asked one of the Romulan soldiers who came striding through the doorway.

That brought it all back like a punch to the gut. Jim raised his head.

“Get up. The captain wants to speak to you.”

The soldiers ushered him out of the cage with little patience. There were five of them, which Jim thought was overkill for an escort, but only two accompanied him out into the corridor. He had just enough time to glance back at Nyota, and then the doors slid shut between them.

“What does he want me for?”

“Shut up, Terran.”

They took him into a turbolift, then along a maze of corridors. Jim tried to pick out anything distinctive he could map out in his head, but Romulan ships were evidently designed with efficiency in mind with little thought for aesthetic.

He was led to what looked like a canteen. It was cramped and overcrowded, the din of cutlery hitting plates and the rowdy voices of crew members almost overwhelming after the near-silence of their cell. One of the guards prodded him forward. As he passed by the rows of tables, conversation dropped to a murmur and Jim felt the uncomfortable pressure of a whole room watching him.

Nero was sitting alone at a table near the far wall. He gestured invitingly as Jim approached.

“Take a seat, Kirk.”

Jim slouched into the chair across from him, trying for nonchalance. Nero wasn’t paying all that much attention to him, however. He continued eating as though everything was normal, like he dined with prisoners every other day. There was food spread across the table, most of which Jim didn’t recognise but which set his stomach grumbling regardless.

The Romulan noticed his interest. “Eat what you want, there’s more than enough.”

Jim scowled. “What’s with the sudden hospitality?”

Nero sucked a dab of sauce from his finger and shrugged. “I just thought joining me at the captain’s table would be most appropriate.” He looked intensely amused. “Go ahead, eat. I’m told it’s all perfectly agreeable to human digestion.”

Jim couldn’t resist that invitation twice. Without further ado, he started piling food onto the empty plate waiting in front of him. There was enough to choose from. Thin slices of dark red meat; a hunk of seeded, grainy bread; salad made up of purple leaves; something starchy that might once have resembled potato; a little pot of pinkish sauce that Jim dolloped onto his salad. He tried everything, a little weirded out by some of the flavours and textures, but hungry enough that he was willing to overlook. For all he knew, this could very well be his last meal, and he planned to make the most of it.

Only when he’d finished his inhalation of food stuffs did he sit back and return his undivided attention to Nero.

“So, why am I here?”

“Ah, yes. The all-popular question.”

“Well it _is_ the hot topic of conversation back in our cages,” Jim quipped.

Nero smiled, for all the world as if they were old companions sharing a civil dinner date. “Of course. My apologies. You want the truth? I was curious to meet you.”

Jim scoffed. “Uh huh. Can’t tell you how many alien captains abducted me right off the street because they just couldn’t _live_ without my valuable insight and witty repartee.”

“You’re a funny man.”

“That I am. So why am I here?”

The Romulan ignored the question a second time, responding instead with one of his own. “What exactly do you _do_ back on Terra? What’s your occupation?”

“What is this, a date?”

One of the guards, who Jim hadn’t even realised were still hovering behind him, cuffed the back of his head.

“Indulge me.”

Jim held up his hands. “You might say I’m between careers right now.”

“Oh? It was my belief you’d just joined Starfleet.”

He opened his mouth to answer in the negative, then stopped and stared down at his arm. “Yeah, well. Not by choice.”

“You don’t have any desire to see the stars, Kirk? Explore new worlds? To boldly go where no man has gone before?”

Jim raised a dubious eyebrow. “Dramatic sounding split infinitives aside, no not really. I know exactly what happens when you join Starfleet. No matter how high up you get, sooner or later they’ll ask you to die for them, and if you say no you’re finished. Everyone looks out for number one and no further.”

“Is that so? I once read a case study about a Starfleet captain who reputedly went to great lengths to protect the wellbeing of his crew, up to and including the sacrifice of his own life.”

“Never happened,” Jim said instantly, full of steely conviction. “Chances are he died and they just tacked a glory story to his name, help lure in the new recruits. You think I don’t know Starfleet’s history? Trust me, I’ve been up close and personal, and I _know_ I don’t want anything to do with them.”

Nero chuckled.

“What? What’s funny?”

“Nothing. You’re just... not what I expected.”

Jim shrugged, wondering what the hell the Romulan _had_ expected when he’d beamed him up seemingly at random.

Nero pressed his hands to the table and stood decisively. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” When the two guards began to follow, he added, “You’re dismissed. I think I can handle one human on my own.”

Jim followed him out of the canteen and once again became promptly lost in the twists and turns of the ship’s corridors.

“You asked why you’re here,” Nero said at length, as they walked. “I have to confess, my explanation is probably unsatisfying. In truth, I hold no real grudge against you and your fellow Terrans. I was simply curious to speak with those Spock once called friends.”

“Spock and I aren’t friends,” Jim protested automatically, while the rational part of his mind wondered what that even had to do with anything. “We barely know each other.”

“Maybe not in this reality. But the Spock who destroyed my homeworld claimed you as his soulmate. What a romantic notion for a Vulcan. You understand why you... drew my attention.”

Jim side eyed him. “Uh huh. I’d like to get back to the ‘no real grudge’ thing.”

“Provided your people behave well while aboard this ship, I have no interest in keeping you, killing you, or otherwise detaining you beyond our next destination.”

“We can just... go?”

“You can do what you want. Stay and fight for my rebellion, if you’d prefer.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll have to pass. Something tells me you’re no better option than Starfleet, in terms of life expectancy.”

Nero tipped his head in concession. “Very well. I’m afraid I won’t be passing by Terra again any time soon, but I’m sure there’s some hospitable rock out there somewhere that I can drop you.”

That was by no means the comforting reassurance Jim had been hoping for, but he supposed it was better than all the other outcomes he’d been imagining. He, Nyota and McCoy might all just come out of this still breathing.

“But not Spock,” he realised.

“No, not Spock. I have business with your Vulcan friend.”

“We’re not friends,” he said again, automatically. And it was true. Just because they’d been placed in captivity together didn’t make them any closer than they’d been two days ago, when Jim barely knew him from Adam. Nor was it _his_ fault that the insane Romulan had picked Spock to fixate on.

So he shrugged. “Fine. Any chance of us getting out of the cages?”

Nero smiled. “I’m afraid not. I do, after all, have a rebellion to lead and a reputation to maintain. I can’t have Terrans of the Empire running around my ship.”

“Right. Course. What was I thinking?”

“Don’t worry. You won’t be here much longer. Our ETA is another seven hours.”

“And where exactly are we arriving at?”

“All in good time.”

They moved into a seemingly empty section of the ship. The random crew members who’d passed them in the halls, pinning Jim with blatant stares of curiosity, were now nowhere to be seen. The lighting here was dim, the temperature colder than in more populated areas.

Nero led him to a door with a complex locking mechanism. It required a code that Jim tried and failed to observe, a handprint scanner, and for the Romulan to swipe a key device before it slid open. He wondered what the hell needed that much security.

“Welcome to our little makeshift lab. You should be honoured. I believe you’re the first Terran ever to set eyes on what we’re working with here.”

The room into which they stepped clearly hadn’t been designed as either a laboratory or a particularly secure holding area, even to Jim’s inexpert eye. It was cluttered and cramped, bits of old machinery piled into corners. A yellowish strip-light overhead cast the whole room in a sickly glow. Metal desks were littered with data PADDs, scrap pieces of wiring, models of various solar systems, star charts, and clusters of instruments that looked not unlike medical equipment. On one particular table, cleared of all other debris, was a rack of three high-tech vials, each with a single suspended sphere of red liquid inside.

And in the centre of the room, clearly its crowning glory, was a floor to ceiling tank filled with the same mystery red substance. It rippled ominously at him.

A single Romulan scientist occupied the provisional lab, turning in flustered surprise at their entrance. He performed a clumsy salute.

“Captain? Can I help you?”

“At ease, Neval. I was just showing our Terran guest the latest development in our weapons system.”

The scientist looked vaguely scandalised, but Nero ignored him.

Jim wrinkled his nose dubiously, cocking his head at the giant red blob. “What _is_ it, exactly?”

“It’s called red matter. It’s the reason I’m here,” Nero answered, voice oddly solemn. “I watched my planet burn, and then I fell through the hole in space this stuff blew open. Ended up in your strange, bleak little universe.” He sighed, almost sounding wistful. “Still. I think I’m making the best of things, don’t you?”

Jim made to step towards it, but Nero grabbed his shoulder and the scientist looked like he might have an aneurysm. He held up his hands in defeat.

“Why are you showing it to me?”

“Because I want you to _understand_ ,” Nero snapped. “Before you feel too badly about leaving Spock to my tender care, I think you should know what kind of man he is. In another life, your peaceful, passive Vulcan was instrumental in creating this. A single drop contains the potential to birth a black hole vast enough to swallow a sun. It is perhaps the greatest weapon of mass destruction ever designed in recorded history, and I have Spock to thank every step of the way for it falling into my hands.”

With growing unease, Jim stared intently at the undulating red mass in the tank. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I have a personal matter to take care of, first. But then... Then I think I might end the Terran threat once and for all.”

Jim shuddered.

Nero turned to regard him. “I almost like this version of you, Kirk, so take this as a friendly warning. Flee the Empire, before it comes crashing down around you.”

Truthfully, Jim didn’t really know how to react to that. He stared up into the Romulan’s eyes, trying to determine the veracity of such a threat. There was no way one lone, screw-loose alien with his half-derelict ship could really inflict the kind of damage he was implying, not on the heart of the fortified Empire. He’d never even be able to get close enough, surely.

Though he had gotten close enough to destroy an Imperial space station.

Hell, he’d gotten close enough to swipe Jim out from under his own roof.

And there was not one sign of a bluff on Nero’s tattooed face.

“I was just about to take another sample, Captain,” the scientist interrupted, obviously hoping the information would prompt them to leave him in peace.

Nero gestured for him to continue.

Sighing, the Romulan picked up what looked to Jim to be an oversized syringe. Then he hesitated. “If you would instruct the Terran not to speak or interfere, Captain? This is an extremely delicate procedure.”

Nero looked pointedly at him. “He’s not that stupid. Wouldn't want to see us all sucked to oblivion, would you Kirk?”

Neval looked sceptical, but made no further comment. He set about angling the needle of the syringe into the port in the side of the tank. Agonizingly slow, the scientist inserted it and pushed the tip of the needle into the red mass. Jim found himself tensing. The Romulan didn’t let it go any deeper than a few millimetres. Steadying himself, he gently took hold of the plunger and pulled it back.

A minuscule speck of red liquid was drawn through the needle, emerging floating in the glass vessel that had been prepared for it. Jim squinted, trying to get a better look. Almost reverently, Neval extracted the needle from the tank, then the vial from the syringe. He held it before him in both hands, like a bomb he couldn’t help but admire.

It was then that the floor beneath them began to tremble.

Jim looked down in concern, just as the whole ship gave a jolt and a lurch. He nearly lost his footing, flinging his arms out for balance. The scientist swore profusely in Romulan, frantically trying to protect the new sample of red matter. Nero moved towards him as though to intervene.

A voice over the room’s com-system announced, _“This is Commander Ayel. We have come under fire from Imperial patrol ships. Taking evasive manoeuvres now, stand by for further instructions. Captain Nero, please report to the bridge. Ayel out.”_

The ship shuddered again. Jim stumbled sideways and had to grab hold of the tabletop to steady himself. He blinked, finding himself staring down at the three pre-prepared vials he’d noticed earlier, with their innocuous blobs of red liquid floating inside.

“Keep it still, damn you!” Nero snarled from somewhere behind him.

Jim had no idea what possessed him to do it. Even in retrospect, he could never justify it as anything but a stupid, thoughtless impulse. He grabbed one of the vials, shoving it quickly up the inside of his jacket sleeve. Then he turned his back on the remainders, positioning himself as though to hide the evidence of his theft.

His heart pounded, regret and terror almost instantaneous.

Nero would murder him on the spot if he was discovered. He didn’t even know why he’d _wanted_ it. It had just been _there_ , tantalizingly close, and no one had been looking. He cursed silently.

But there was no way to put it back now, even if he’d dared to try. The ship was steadying. The scientist slumped in relief as Nero finally gave him some breathing room, clutching his own tube of red matter tight to his chest. The Romulan captain turned a glare on Jim, like he was personally to blame for the disruption.

“Our tour is being cut short, I’m afraid. Come. I’ll take you back to your cell.”

All traces of his previous good humour vanished, he reached out to snatch Jim’s arm. Jim’s breath stopped, but by pure chance Nero failed to grab the sleeve where he’d stashed the vial. He was propelled ahead of the Romulan, pushed out into the corridor.

Nero paused in the doorway, looking back at the scientist. “Neval, with me. Bring that new extract, we need to get it ready for deployment.”

“But I need to -”

“ _With me_ , I said.”

“Aye, sir.” The scientist scuttled obediently after them, cradling the red matter carefully in both hands. He swiftly entered in the complex locking code on the door’s control panel, then the three of them set off.

They got into a nearby turbolift, descending once again through the levels of the ship. In such close proximity, Jim felt convinced they would hear his racing heartbeat, or feel the sizeable bulge of the stolen vial inside his sleeve. His forehead was damp with nervousness. He waited for them to notice his guilt at any second.

The turbolift opened, and Nero shoved him out. “Hurry up.”

Jim walked quickly, doing his best to remember the path back to his cell. He couldn’t believe he was getting away with this, but Nero and the scientist were busy conferring in hushed voices behind him, clearly oblivious. Whether to try sneaking it off the ship or cutting his losses and just ditching it somewhere was the next dilemma. He was debating wildly between the two options as they came to the last stretch of corridor and the sound first reached his ears.

He stopped dead, staring ahead at the door behind which Nyota, McCoy and Spock were still imprisoned.

Muffled screaming drifted from the locked room.

Then he was running.

 

* * *

 

 

It had all started going wrong not long after Kirk left.

The first warning sign came when the three guards didn’t leave, nor turn off the lights. While under other circumstances Spock would have appreciated not being plunged into darkness yet again, the break in routine was disconcerting. Indeed, even as he looked on, one of the Romulans keyed the locking code into the door’s control panel, sealing it tight. Tension spread through Spock’s shoulders and the back of his neck. He rose to his feet, adrenaline already beginning to seep into his bloodstream as the guards’ attention turned towards the cages and their occupants.

Doctor McCoy was too absorbed in his own shivering, sweating sickness to notice anything amiss at first, but Nyota was alert enough to sense the sudden danger. She looked across at Spock as she backed up to the far wall of her enclosure. He nodded to her, unable for the moment to offer anything beyond solidarity.

“Been a while since we’ve had a woman on board,” one of the Romulans said, moving closer.

Immediately, Spock felt anxiety speed his heart rate, and heard Nyota draw a sharp breath.

“Do not touch her.”

“Shut up, halfbreed.”

McCoy finally roused himself. He staggered to his feet, pulling himself up along the bars. A damp, unhealthy sheen covered his face. “What’s happening?”

Spock ignored him, too focused on the Romulan who stepped up to Nyota’s cage. He trailed his hand along the bars, circling round her. She moved with him, always staying just out of reach.

“Don’t be like that,” he crooned, slipping his hand through a gap in the bars and holding it towards her as though in offering. “I’ll be real gentle.”

“Oh yeah?” Nyota’s voice dripped sugary condescension. “I sure won’t be.” In a burst of movement, she grasped his wrist and pulled forward with all her strength. The Romulan’s face smashed into one of the bars, hard enough for blood to spill from his mouth and nose. Still maintaining her hold, she slammed the flat of her other hand into the back of his elbow.

The Romulan howled and withdrew, while the remaining two guards fell about laughing.

“Good girl,” McCoy rasped fervently. “Don’t let the bastards near you.”

“She may have just worsened the situation considerably,” Spock pointed out, his sense of trepidation building.

Sure enough, as the two nearest the door continued to express their mirth, the guard Nyota had injured became more and more incensed. His breath came hard through his nose. He paced round her, holding his obviously dislocated arm at a strange angle.

“You stupid bitch.”

Nyota’s lip curled.

One of the other Romulans appeared to take pity on his fellow. He approached still chuckling. “Let me help you, Rekar. The little woman is obviously too much for you.” Taking hold of Rekar’s arm, he stretched it out straight. Then he pulled and twisted in a fast, practised motion. There was an unpleasant crack of joints and tendons. Rekar growled as the dislocation was reset, rotating his wrist and forearm to restore feeling.

Then, expression thunderous, he prowled around to the front of Nyota’s cage. “You’re going to regret that little stunt. Get her out of there.”

“Don’t you lay one filthy hand on her!” McCoy snarled, shoving past Spock to get to the front of their own cage. He was shaking with outrage, his Southern accent thicker than ever in the grip of emotion.

Not one of the guards even glanced at him.

One of them produced the device which unlocked the cage doors. Nyota’s swung open, and Rekar reached in and grabbed at her.

“No!” Both Spock and McCoy surged to that side of their enclosure, slamming uselessly against the bars.

Nyota had her fists up when the Romulan came at her, face set hard and determined. She jabbed, catching him in the mouth. He returned the blow with considerably more force. Nyota fell back against the wall of her cage, reeling. Almost casually, Rekar fisted a hand around her ponytail and hauled her out into the room.

Spock’s breath froze in his chest.

Rekar threw her hard enough that she lost her footing, landing on her knees. In a second she was rolling away, up and dashing for the door. A second Romulan caught her as she passed, spinning her into his arms. In one quick movement, she brought her knee up into his groin and then her heel down on his foot. He let her go with a groan of agony.

She made it to the door’s control panel before Rekar crashed into her from behind, pinning her up against the wall with his weight. She let out a cry more of anger than fear, thrashing wildly in an attempt to free herself.

McCoy’s remaining self-control appeared to snap, finally. He hurled himself against the cage door, managing to rattle it in its setting. “You fucking alien _cunts_! Let her go! Take on someone your own size, bastard!”

Rekar laughed, turning around and dragging Nyota with him. He had his arm - the very one she’d injured - wrapped tight around her neck, keeping her back pressed to his chest. She clawed at him, obviously struggling to breathe.

“I’m sorry, have I offended your delicate sensibilities, Terran?” He used his free hand to stroke Nyota’s cheek, whispering into her ear as she flinched away. “But she’s such a pretty, feisty little human. How am I to resist that?”

McCoy’s hands were white-knuckled as he gripped the bars. He spat in Rekar’s direction. “You’re pathetic. Rapist scum.”

Seemingly in response, Rekar reached round and groped Nyota’s breast. She let out a growl and kicked back at his shin, but he only grinned and tightened his chokehold. His hand slipped up under her shirt.

Spock was unsure if he was capable of bearing witness to this. He wanted to look away, but suspected that might be a disservice. The purely logical thing would be for her to submit, to minimise pain and injury, but even so he could not bring himself to hope for that. He bared his teeth, a snarl of utter loathing building in his chest.

“No wonder the Empire wants to exterminate your disgusting race,” McCoy hissed next to him. “I hope they do it. I hope they blow you right out of the sky. Goddamn animals.”

At last, he seemed to have landed on something that caught their attention. Rekar and his fellows turned towards him, expressions hard. “Is that what you hope, Terran?”

“Damn right.”

Without warning, Rekar shoved Nyota towards one of the other Romulans. “Hold her for me.” He strode towards their cage, arms wide open in challenge. “Well, Terran, you’re a man of your Empire. Come take your chances. Come kill the _alien scum_.”

The key device flashed, and the door swung open.

Spock tried to press forward, but suddenly found himself facing a disruptor gun to the head. The Romulan flicked the weapon, gesturing for him to retreat. “Not you, halfbreed. Get back.”

Seething, his gloved hands clenched into fists, Spock took a single, pointed step backwards. It was a struggle to do so. Every instinct in him told him to attack, to hurt, to _break_. His blood was burning in his veins with the need to do something other than stand impotent witness.

Rekar beckoned. “Come on, Terran. Defend your woman.”

McCoy seemed to steel himself, his spine straightening. The door slammed shut again as he moved forward. He didn’t get two steps before Rekar backhanded him across the face, the Romulan’s superior strength sending him sprawling. Spock hung his head. The detoxing human was in no condition to participate in even a fair fight, let alone this.

Rekar landed a kick to McCoy’s ribs that sent him rolling across the floor like a doll. He came to rest on his front, struggling to get his hands and knees back under him. Rekar pounced forward, bringing his forearm down hard across the human’s back. McCoy collapsed with a groan.

The Romulan tipped his head back and crowed his victory, evidently enjoying himself. He spun back towards Nyota and his two followers. “Your noble defender has fallen already, little human. I’m afraid you’re all ours.”

Spock smashed his fists against the cage, kicked at the door, jammed his shoulder against the bars and shoved. It wouldn’t give. He took a breath, wrapped his hands around two of them, and _pulled_ with all his strength. There was a squeaking creak of metal, and for a second he thought he’d succeeded. But they only bent incrementally rather than come free as he’d hoped. He met Nyota’s wide eyes from above the hand one of the guards had clamped over her mouth, silently trying to communicate his useless apologies.

Rekar moved to stand before her, trailing a finger down over her hip until it caught on the button of her jeans. She twisted away, but couldn’t escape the other two gathered close around her.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Rekar told her.

“God, me too,” McCoy said from behind him. The Romulan turned in surprise, and the doctor’s fist cracked into his jaw.

In the same instant, the foundations of the ship shook and warning sirens began blaring somewhere nearby. Rekar staggered and McCoy lurched towards him, fisting both hands in the Romulan’s coat collar and bearing him down. Rekar seemed more bemused than anything as he fell beneath the human’s weight, managing to jostle the guard holding Nyota.

It all happened so fast after that that Spock had difficulty tracking everything.

In the turbulence, they all staggered sideways. Her captor knocked off balance, Nyota made a desperate grab for the weapons clipped to his belt. She missed the gun, but her hand closed over the handle of a knife. She pulled it free.

Landing atop his startled opponent, McCoy slammed his elbow down into Rekar’s face. The Romulan howled as his nose broke. The doctor prepared another blow, but was swept aside before he could execute it.

Nyota didn’t try to turn around with the guard’s arms wrapped around her. Instead she simply dropped through them, falling into a crouch at his feet. Then she spun, thrusting the knife upwards. The Romulan shrieked as it stabbed into his groin. He collapsed, arterial blood splashing across her face.

The third guard, panicked, drew his gun and aimed it at Nyota.

She threw herself flat just in time.

Instead, the disruptor beam went over her head and struck McCoy in the face.

He screamed, the sound finally bringing a halt to the chaos. His hands flew up to clamp over one side of his face, blood seeping from between his fingers. He went on screaming, arching backwards on the floor. Spock’s stomach clenched in revulsion at the smell of burned flesh and hair.

Nyota flew to him, landing on her knees beside the doctor and letting the knife clatter away. She didn’t seem to know where to put her hands, ended up gripping his shirt helplessly as McCoy continued to howl in agony.

“What do I do?” she asked in panic, looking up at Spock.

He had no answer for her.

The two Romulans who remained standing looked just as unsure of themselves, trading significant looks above the Terrans’ heads. Spock doubted they’d been given permission to maim their prisoners. Looking equal parts shaken and furious, Rekar stepped over his injured comrade and grabbed Nyota’s upper arm, hauling her to her feet. “Get away from him.”

Immediately, she turned on him. Her fists pounded on his chest, then formed into claws and took a swipe at his face. “What did you do? What the fuck did you _do_?!”

The ship slowly steadied.

McCoy’s screams had turned to ragged, grating whimpers, no less awful to listen to. He hadn’t yet taken his hands away from the left side of his face, but turned on his side and curled into himself.

“Stupid Terran,” Rekar hissed at him. “You _had_ to interfere, you couldn’t just stay still and quiet where you belong.”

“Rekar,” the other guard called urgently. He was bent over the Romulan Nyota had stabbed. “We need to get Torell to the medbay. It is a deep wound.”

“He is weak enough to be bettered by a human female, he can go without my help.”

“But -”

The door slid open without warning and Nero, Kirk and yet another Romulan stood surveying the violent tableau. There was a beat of time in which no one appeared to know how to react.

Rekar and his fellow guard snapped a belated salute. Freed, Nyota dropped back down onto the floor next to McCoy, who wrenched away from her when she tried to touch him. The injured Romulan panted laboriously, hands jammed into the juncture between his legs in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

“What the hell is this?” Kirk asked, voice faint with disbelief and perhaps horror. He turned on Nero. “You said nothing would happen to them!”

The Romulan captain looked angrier than Spock would have expected. He stalked towards Rekar, who lowered his eyes in deference. “Since when has it been acceptable to disobey my explicit instructions, Lieutenant?”

“Captain, they were attempting escape -”

“That is a lie,” Spock interrupted, voice loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. “Your men are would-be rapists and torturers.”

Kirk’s gaze shot to Nyota. She ducked her head, avoiding his eyes.

“Get out,” Nero said coldly.

“But -”

“I don’t have time to explain to you the meaning of obedience, Rekar. Report to your quarters. You and your men can disembark at Romulus the next time we dock.”

“Sir -!”

“ _Get out_ , Lieutenant!”

Rekar cast a look of loathing first at Spock and then Nyota, before he and the other former guard turned and headed for the door, pausing only to grasp their wounded accomplice under the arms and none too gently haul him from the room. A trail of blood marked their exit.

Nero turned to the Romulan who had returned with him and Kirk. “Neval, see that the Terran gets medical attention. _Supervise it,_ then report to me on the bridge. I want everything ready by the time we reach Vulcan.”

Spock blinked. He had been watching McCoy, but looked towards Nero in surprise at the mention of his father’s homeworld.

The Romulan wore a cruel smile.


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

**Stardate 2255.225.**

**Vulcan System.**

**The Nerada.**

 

It had taken an hour and approximately twenty minutes for Doctor McCoy to return to their enclosure. Upon doing so, he had crawled into a corner of the cage and not spoken to any of them. His face and one eye were swaddled in bandages and padding, their Romulan captors obviously having neglected to use regeneration treatment on him. Spock could smell fresh blood and exudate. He doubted the eye would be salvageable. Nyota, similarly, did not seem to welcome comfort or even interaction. Upon resuming their places in the cage, Kirk had tried to ask questions about what had taken place during his absence. She had refused to answer, and rebuffed his attempts to initiate contact.

The emotional atmosphere was unpleasant, suffused with guilt and accusation and pain. Spock pulled his clothing tight around his extremities, reluctant to expose himself to the toxic combination any further than necessary. He sat with his back to the Terrans, affording McCoy and Nyota their privacy, even if the they did not realise it in the dark.

His hands grazed lightly up and down the bars of the cage door, fingers tracing the bends he’d managed to inflict. He did not think he was capable of repeating the same feat without the strength born of adrenaline. And even then, it had not been enough.

He bowed his neck until his forehead touched the metal, hair falling down around his face.

He would not be this weak again.

 

* * *

 

 

En mass, they were escorted to a transporter room.

They were released from the cages one by one, metal cuffs fitted to their wrists and arms pulled tight behind their backs. Jim protested vociferously, but this new set of guards didn’t even engage him. Obviously after the last disaster, precautions had been established.

As they were marched through the ship in single file, Jim tried to calculate how much time had passed since their arrival. If pressed, he would have taken a guess at three days, but he couldn’t be sure. They’d all slept in fits and starts, making the sleep cycle a useless yardstick. Worse, Jim was the only one who’d eaten a decent meal throughout the whole ordeal. The others had been granted water and little else, and in the harsh overhead lights the toll was suddenly visible.

Nyota’s eyes were shadowed and half-lidded, her usual defiance nowhere to be seen. Her lip was bruised and split from whatever had happened in the cells, and she hadn’t even bothered to protest when they’d cuffed her. Behind her McCoy was shuffling, head bowed and pallor grey. Already he’d bled through the bandaging on his face. Only Spock seemed relatively untouched by the deprivation. He looked about as unwashed as the rest of them, and a rip in the shoulder of his shirt revealed a nasty burn from disruptor fire, but even so he held his spine ramrod straight and kept his face set in impassive lines. For a moment, Jim marvelled at his composure. He must know he was likely walking to his own execution.

Jim felt not a little like that himself. He’d transferred the vial of red matter to his inner jacket pocket, never having gotten the opportunity to get rid of it. It bumped gently against his ribs with every step he took, and he wanted to flinch each time. He wished he’d never taken it. It felt like a lead weight, a hot coal, a bomb strapped to his chest.

There was no way he was getting off the ship still carrying it.

He had to be visibly sweating by the time they reached the transported room. Perhaps luckily, he was almost immediately distracted. To his bemusement, standing there waiting beside the transporter pads, also in cuffs, was yet another Vulcan.

Jim eyed him suspiciously, wondering who he was and why he hadn’t been kept in the cells with them. All they needed was another damn alien thrown into the mess with them. The Vulcan’s dark eyes returned his curious study, slowly travelling the length of him. Whatever he saw didn’t seem to please him. His severe brows drew together at first sight of Jim.

Nero was also present, standing with arms folded over his chest. He exuded impatience and excitement and grim purpose.

Jim rattled his cuffs pointedly upon seeing the Romulan captain. “Hey. You said we could go. What the hell is this?”

Nero barely glanced at him. “I believe I said I’d deposit you somewhere hospitable. Delta Vega meets that standard. Just barely.”

Jim racked his brain trying to remember if he’d ever heard of a planet or space station by that name. Nothing sprang to mind, which only made him worry all the more. What backwater rock where they being stranded on?

“Am I to go with them?” Spock asked, stepping up next to Jim. He cast a single scathing look at the second Vulcan, then seemed to dismiss him from existence.

“For a time,” Nero answered with a narrow smile. “I’ll be putting on a show just for you, Spock. But we’ll be seeing each other again when the festivities are over.”

“Nero, do not do this,” the other Vulcan said suddenly, his voice just about as impassioned as a Vulcan ever got. “This crime is beyond forgiveness. The weight of it will crush your soul.”

“You would know,” the Romulan snapped.

“I know the guilt of so many deaths, yes. Do not do this to them, or yourself.”

Nero was across the room in a second, thrusting his face into the Vulcan’s, spittle flying as he hissed furiously, “I will feel no guilt in avenging my people. Only relief, that the man who destroyed my whole world - who took my wife, my _child_ \- finally knows the pain of such loss himself.”

“Your people still _live_ in this reality!” the Vulcan protested. “You yourself have become a leader to them, a figurehead. Do not squander such a precious second chance -”

Nero sneered, turning on his heel and sweeping away. “Enough. You will not change my mind with emotional drivel. Recall yourself, Vulcan.”

Jim followed the exchange with interest, but found that little of it made any sense to him. From the corner of his eye he also kept watch on Spock, wondering if he’d give away any reaction. He remained as blank as ever.

“Get them ready,” Nero instructed over his shoulder.

Immediately, one of the guards clamped his hands on Jim’s shoulders and shoved him towards the transporter. He cringed as the red matter bounced against him with the rough treatment. For a short, merciful moment he’d almost forgotten about it.

Nyota, McCoy and three Romulan soldiers took up position on the transporter pads first. They shimmered out of existence, then Jim, Spock and the unknown Vulcan were prodded into position, along with another three Romulans. Jim started to wonder vaguely what effect transported energy had on a sample of red matter.

“Oh, and Kirk?”

Jim looked up.

“I’ve given my men instructions to leave you and your people down there when they return. But you should know, the signal from your implants has been blocked while you were aboard my ship. I’m afraid that won’t be the case once you depart.”

Jim’s heart sank. It hadn’t even occurred to him to worry about his pending conscription, nor whatever consequences now awaited him for supposedly skipping out on it.

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Nero mused. “Should Starfleet arrive quickly enough - and I suspect they will - you may just survive long enough to give an accounting of what you heard here today.”

Motes of light were already beginning to gather in Jim’s vision when the Romulan added, “When they ask why I did it, tell them it was... justice.”

 

* * *

 

 

They materialised in the middle of an ice field. Jim gasped, his breath snatched from him by the sudden cold. His heart pounded in shock and he clenched his hands behind his back, shivering violently. The Romulans were clad safely in fur coats and thermals, bundled up against the bite of the wind, but he and they others had been given no protection beyond what they were already wearing.

The joke finally dawned on him that no matter what he said about letting them go without a grudge, Nero had no intention of them actually surviving.

One of the soldiers checked a navigation device, then set off north-west. They followed behind in a line, a Romulan interspaced between each of them to prevent trouble. The cold promptly seeped into Jim’s bones. His feet ached with it, his fingers burned. Ripped jeans and a leather jacket were doing precisely nothing to conserve precious body heat. Ahead of him, McCoy stumbled, sinking onto his knees in the snow. He was cuffed and kicked and shoved until he got back up and they could continue.

Jim felt the temptation to collapse himself by the time they finally came to the cave opening. It was a crevice in an ice wall, opening up inside to a rock lined cavern. They shuffled in, basking in the relief of even this paltry shelter. Without the wind and driving snow, Jim estimated the temperature was only painful, as opposed to completely lethal.

They were pointed to the back corner of the cave and told to sit. Two of the soldiers positioned themselves near the entrance, squinting up into the sky. The other four roamed the cavern restlessly.

“Hey,” Jim called to one of them, driven to impertinence. “What’s this about? I thought we could go?”

“First, you watch,” the Romulan answered. For the first time he spoke without the aid of the universal translator obviously fitted in Nero’s ship, the Standard words sounding clumsy in his mouth.

“Watch what?” Jim asked incredulously, but the soldier had already turned away.

Annoyed, he moved to join the others, lowering himself to the ground awkwardly without the use of his arms for balance. He managed to arrange himself cross-legged, wincing as frigid moisture soaked into his jeans. It occurred to him fleetingly to worry about frostbite, but it didn’t really seem his biggest concern as of the moment. Anyway, hypothermia was far more likely. He slumped back against the surface of a frost-limned rock, trying not to let his bare hands touch anything.

Instinctively, they had gathered in a tight circle, although it wasn’t really doing much to conserve body heat. On one side of him was Nyota, shuddering with cold. Her lips had turned an ashy grey colour and he could hear the sound of her teeth clicking together. He supposed that was a good thing. He’d read somewhere that you were only fucked once you _stopped_ shivering.

That didn’t give him much confidence in Spock, who sat on his other side. Their knees pressed together, and Jim couldn’t detect a single tremor from the Vulcan. He studied him from the corner of his eye, noting the green flush that spread across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He didn’t have his usual statue-like posture either, slumping forward with shoulders hunched. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused in a way Jim wasn’t used to. In fact, both Vulcans had gone still and glassy-eyed.

“They’re built for desert conditions,” McCoy rasped tiredly, noting Jim’s concern. It was the first thing he’d said to any of them since being shot. “Bodies designed for losing heat, not keeping it. Doubt they’ll cope too well out here.”

With difficulty, Jim managed to elbow the Vulcan in the ribs.

Spock blinked slowly and turned to look at him.

“Just checking you were still in there somewhere.”

“I will endure this. There is no cause for worry on my behalf.”

“I wasn’t _worried_. This is all your damn fault, the least you can do is not check out early!”

The Vulcan gave him a sour look, but made an effort to straighten his back and shoulders.

It became quickly apparent that they were waiting for something, some signal or other. The Romulans rotated their positions at the entrance to the cave, but whichever of them moved to stand there always kept their eyes fixed skywards. Maybe an hour passed, then two. Jim wasn’t entirely sure there’d be anyone left to witness whatever Nero’s theatrics turned out to be if it didn’t happen soon. Spock was all but slumped against him, heavier than expected. The older Vulcan had closed his eyes and withdrawn into himself, and if it hadn’t been for the occasional small wisp of misted breath, Jim would have written him off already. On his other side, McCoy and Nyota huddled close together, neither of them speaking or reacting very much to anything. Even his own thoughts were starting to feel lethargic, Jim noticed.

He was staring dazedly at Nyota’s left boot when one of the Romulans grabbed his shoulder and hauled him upright. Legs numb and stiff, his knees promptly gave out beneath him, nearly depositing him ass-first back into the snow. The soldier shook him impatiently.

“Up, Terran. It’s starting.”

“Wha-” He was yanked unceremoniously towards the mouth of the cave, the others receiving the same treatment. The older Vulcan had to be woken from his near-trance, and the Romulans weren’t gentle about doing so.

Jim winced as he was exposed to the open air again, but at least the wind had died down since earlier. He peered about, but couldn’t see anything at all except yet more white ice fields.

“What are we supposed to be watching?”

The Romulan standing beside him raised a hand and pointed. Everyone followed the line of sight to the disk of orange that had risen above the horizon in the time they’d sat waiting.

“Captain Nero is ready to show the galaxy what he does to those who oppose the Romulan uprising.”

“Is that why he told you he was doing this?” the older Vulcan muttered.

A soldier cuffed him.

They fell quiet, shivering and staring up at the sky. Minutes ticked by, and Jim wondered what exactly they were waiting for. He shifted from foot to foot, restless and angry and _cold_.

Then he noticed it.

For a few seconds Jim couldn’t quite process what he was looking at. The pale orange orb of the planet was growing darker, a wound marring the surface. In the clear, crisp atmosphere he could see cracks spreading, whole chunks breaking apart. It crumbled inwards, like the planet was hollow.

Jim shook his head, not understanding. Behind him, the older Vulcan let out a low sort of moan.

As they watched, dumbfounded, the entire planet disintegrated. It imploded, disappearing from the sky without a trace, not even floating debris or a dust cloud to mark its passing. That almost made it worse. Jim felt vaguely like he’d been tricked, like there’d never been a world full of people there in the first place.

He looked round at the others. McCoy and Nyota had the same expressions of detached, uncomprehending surprise he no doubt wore. Spock was riveted, his dark eyes wide and searching the empty sky. Next to him, the older Vulcan looked like he’d just taken a blow. His mouth was open, and unshed tears glittered in the light. Jim looked hastily away.

No one spoke. There wasn’t really anything to say. Even the Romulans seemed uncertain about how to react.

Jim tried to remember what the population of Vulcan had been. Off the top of his head he thought it was around six billion. He couldn’t bring himself to react to that many deaths. It was too high a number, a statistic beyond emotional impact. He wondered clinically if there’d been time for any to escape, or if he was now standing next to two members of an extinct species.

On the tail of that thought came the recollection of the vial of red matter in his jacket pocket.

If Nero was to be believed, a single drop of the stuff had just sucked a planet right out of the sky in a matter of minutes, and Jim was blithely carrying it against his person. He closed his eyes as the true depths of his own stupidity hit home. He didn’t think he could move, abruptly terrified of jostling it too roughly and it being the last thing he ever did.

The older Vulcan was the first to turn away, trudging back into the cave without a word. The Romulans didn’t bother stopping him, still contemplating the sky. After a few seconds Spock backed away as well, not following the other Vulcan but distancing himself from everyone else. Jim wondered bleakly if Spock had memories of growing up somewhere on that planet, if he’d had parents still up there. He didn’t look at him, afraid he’d find the answers on his face. He ducked his head, not knowing what else to say or do.

Somewhere behind him, there was a quick chink of metal, a soft crunch, and then the dull thud of something heavy landing in snow.

It was an almost unremarkable series of sounds. Jim frowned, turning to glance back over his shoulder. He certainly wasn’t expecting to see Spock free of his restraints, one of the Romulan soldiers dead at his feet with his neck twisted at a violent angle. No one reacted at first, not until Spock was already running. He headed straight for Jim, shouldering past a second Romulan on the way. Jim was so startled by the sight that he flinched backwards, bracing for a blow.

Spock reached him, grabbed his shoulders to spin him round, then reached down and took hold of the cuffs restraining him. Jim let out a shout of alarm as the Vulcan wrenched them apart, steeling himself for the pain of broken wrists. It never came. The chain snapped instead.

“Help me,” was all Spock said, and then his back was slammed up against Jim’s and there were five pissed off Romulans rushing to surround them.

And really, it wasn’t like Jim had much of a choice, at that point.

The first of them rushed him. Moving on autopilot, he brought up his foot and kicked, leaning back against the Vulcan for extra leverage. His boot struck the Romulan hard enough to make him crumple. Recovering his stance, he brought his first down across his opponent’s temple, twice. The Romulan slumped unconscious into the snow.

Jim straightened, mouth stretching into a grin despite himself, the wild thrill of violence taking hold of him like it always did. It felt good, to take control again.

Spock jostled him as he dealt with his own attackers, but Jim didn’t have attention or time to spare on helping him yet. Another Romulan was already charging headlong at him. He was just bracing for impact when Nyota stuck her leg straight into the guard’s path. He tripped over her with such force that he took her down as well, both of them tumbling together into the icy powder.

Separating from Spock, Jim darted towards them. The Romulan was still trying to untangle himself when Jim’s kick smashed into his jaw. Nyota freed herself as he collapsed backwards, doing her best to wriggle quickly away with her hands still trapped behind her back. Kneeling down on the Romulan’s chest, Jim twisted a hand into his coat collar. The thick cuff was a heavy weight around his wrist, so he used it to his advantage, lashing it down across the guard’s face. Blood splashed.

“Jim!”

He raised his head at Nyota’s urgent warning, just in time to see one of the other Romulan’s taking aim with a disruptor pistol. He’d been wondering what had taken them so long. Immediately, he threw himself to one side, rolling away. Bursts of disruptor beam brought up sprays of snow in his wake. He kept moving, skidding and slipping and losing ground.

The next shot would have hit him, he was sure, but McCoy of all people came to his rescue. The doctor had largely gone unnoticed in the fray, injured and assumed out of the count already. He proved everyone wrong when he crashed into the Romulan shoulder-first.

They went down, the pistol landing on the ground. Shoving McCoy off him, the Romulan scrambled forward trying to get it back, but Jim was already racing for it. He stamped on the grasping hand and swiped it up. For a second he fumbled with the settings, then gave a mental shrug. He took aim and fired. A smoking hole appeared in the Romulan’s chest. He gurgled and fell.

Jim was already turning away.

The guard that Nyota had tripped was regaining his feet, reaching for his own gun. Jim shot him too before he could draw it, hissing in a breath as the metal of the disruptor grew hot from energy use. His blood was rushing in his ears, and he bared his teeth in something like a grin. It was a feral expression.

He spun round, scanning the area. Nyota and McCoy were safe. His gaze landed on the older Vulcan, who had stood by and witnessed the whole thing from the safety of the cave. His dark eyes flicked between the dead bodies and the pistol in Jim’s hands, wide with judgement.

Sneering at the pacifism, Jim turned away.

Spock was fending off the last two guards, his movements almost a blur. Jim wasted vital seconds just gaping, amazed at the sheer speed. They couldn’t seem to land a blow, even working as a team. Spock blocked every attempt smoothly. Frankly, Jim wondered why they hadn’t just shot him.

Then it occurred to him that Nero had no doubt expressly forbid it, wanting the Vulcan back in one piece to do with as he pleased.

One of the Romulans finally noticed the state of his fellows from over Spock’s shoulder. His eyes widened as he realised that reinforcements weren’t coming and he fell back in panic. Obviously deciding that self-preservation trumped a superior’s orders, he pulled out his pistol and took aim at the Vulcan.

Jim shot him in the head.

His body hadn’t even hit the floor before Spock took down his partner. A vicious blow to the Romulan’s throat left him gagging, then a sweep of one foot put him on his back. Spock slammed down on top of him, raising his fist and bringing it down with a crack into the guard’s face. He hauled back and hit him again, and again, and again. After the fifth or sixth blow, the Romulan had stopped moving. Spock didn’t seem to notice. His hands grasped the side of his head and slammed it down into the ground. There was a sickening crunch. One of the Romulan’s legs gave a final spasm.

Lowering his gun, Jim edged up behind them. “Hey. Stop, it’s done.”

The Vulcan didn’t seem to hear him, continuing to slam his fist into the dead Romulan’s face.

“Hey! _Spock_!”

At last, breathing hard, Spock let himself slump back into the snow. His eyes raised to Jim’s face, black with barely controlled emotion. Blood had sprayed up into his face, his unkempt hair.

He didn’t look much like a Vulcan anymore, Jim thought to himself, unsettled.

 

* * *

 

They freed Nyota, McCoy and the older Vulcan with keys looted from one of the Romulans. Jim was careful in his movements as he worked. In the heat of violence he’d forgotten all about the red matter he carried, but now the fear was back full force, and he was frankly astonished he hadn’t blown them all to hell.

Nor was that his only concern.

Stepping over a Romulan, Jim stooped to pick up a second disruptor pistol, examining it briefly to check the setting was on high. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure McCoy and Nyota were positioned safely behind him, then raised both guns and pointed them at each of the two Vulcans.

Everyone froze.

“What are you doing?” Spock demanded.

Jim didn’t waver. “Before anyone takes another step, I want to know _exactly_ what the deal is between you two and the Romulans.” The situation was already beyond fucked; Jim didn’t see how they could afford to ignore whatever dodgy business the Vulcans were involved in.

The older of the two took a step towards him. “Jim -”

“Any closer and I swear I’ll shoot you dead.” He said it with more conviction than he felt - but then again, he’d just killed three, what was one more?

Spock’s expression was glacial. “I have told you already. I have no connection to -”

“You think I don’t know you’re lying?” Jim interrupted incredulously. “He called you by _name_. We’re out in the ass end of the galaxy because he thought we were _your_ friends. A planet just fucking _blew up_ because that’s where you’re from!”

“Vulcan’s do not lie.”

“I swear to _god_ , Spock -”

“Enough.” They both looked at the older Vulcan, who was gazing pointedly at Spock. “You know the truth of what happened. Why do you keep it from them?”

Spock sneered. “I have no reason to tell them anything. Do you really believe they would trust either one of us more for knowing?”

“Maintaining secrecy now is illogical.”

Jim flicked one of the weapons. “What he said. Start talking.”

“We do not have time for this,” Spock pointed out. “Nero will be expecting our return soon. And no doubt Starfleet will be arriving too, drawn by the... the destruction, if nothing else.”

He was right, Jim was well aware. Already he felt like a countdown had begun somewhere. But it was a risk they’d have to take. Jim had seen what the Vulcan was capable of now, and that was not someone he wanted at his back without establishing some kind of rudimentary trust. He needed to know exactly what kind of situation he’d landed into.

“So talk fast,” he advised.

 

* * *

 

 

They sounded like crazy people, in Jim’s humble opinion. Other universes, destroyed planets, black holes, second selves. He listened to the whole spiel with a healthy dose of scepticism. In fact, the only thing that prevented him dismissing the story outright was that, in a strange way, it did fill in the missing pieces of Nero’s crazed speeches.

At one point, the older Vulcan offered to show him events first hand, as proof of their veracity. He even reached out to touch Jim’s face, seeming both stunned and hurt when he jerked away in horror at the prospect.

Jim didn’t need some alien from another reality messing with his head.

“So what you’re telling me,” he summed up eventually, voice dripping disbelief, “is that _your_ reality was some utopian version of this one, where Starfleet were little more than happy-go-lucky explorers and all the races got along in blissful cooperation.”

“For the most part,” the Vulcan hedged.

“And then you blew up a planet, and ended up here.”

“Through no fault of my own, I was too late to save Romulus, yes. However, Nero believes -”

“Oh trust me, I’m getting the picture as to what Nero believes.” Jim shook his head, looking across at Spock. The real Spock. The _younger_ Spock, at least. “You believe all this?”

“I have seen it in a mindmeld,” he admitted reluctantly. “He is telling the truth about how he and Nero arrived here. Beyond that I cannot say.”

Helplessly, Jim looked back towards McCoy and Nyota, wondering if they were buying it any more than he was.

They weren’t listening. McCoy was doubled over quietly vomiting into a snow drift, while Nyota rested her hand on his shoulder.

“We really should begin moving,” the Vulcan said. “Doctor McCoy needs treatment for his injury or he is liable to contract infection.”

Jim scowled, finally lowering both guns. “Okay, first condition. Can you just... stop talking about us like you know us? It’s creepy.”

The Vulcan averted his gaze.

“Right. Good. Thank you.” Shaking his head, Jim turned to towards the younger of the two. He flipped one of the pistols, holding it out in offering and raising his eyebrow in a decent imitation of the Vulcan’s typical quirk. After a few seconds’ hesitation, Spock reached out and closed a blood stained hand around the weapon.

“You’re really not so bad to have in a fight,” Jim commented, impressed despite himself.

The Vulcan inclined his head. “I have learned to defend myself well.”

Jim’s gaze flickered to the pulped mess of the Romulan’s face. “No kidding...”

Spock regarded him blandly, sliding the gun into the belt of his trousers as though he used such weapons daily. Jim snorted, supposing he should be glad of the competence.

“Alright, strip them down,” he ordered, raising his voice to be heard by all of them. “Anything we could use. Coats, guns, food if they have it on them.” He doubted they would, but it couldn’t hurt to hope. He walked a few paces and squatted down, rifling through the clothes of the Romulan he’d shot in the head. He saw Nyota do the same after a few seconds’ hesitation.

“This one still lives,” Spock announced.

Jim glanced back over his shoulder. The Vulcan was standing over the first guard, who Jim had only had time to knock unconscious.

“So just -”

Before he could finish speaking, Spock readied his weapon and placidly shot the Romulan twice in the chest.

Jim blinked a couple of times. “...Or that works too.”

From behind Spock, the... other Spock was glaring. “That was unnecessary. He was no threat to you in his condition. Is life of so little value in this universe?”

“I happen to regard my own life as infinitely more valuable than his,” Spock answered calmly, “and would not wish to endanger it by leaving a live enemy at my back. Surely that is logical?”

“You could have left him restrained.”

“In which case he would have died anyway, either of exposure to the elements or Nero’s wrath. Arguably, my action was merciful.”

The older Vulcan couldn’t seem to form a retort to that, so Spock dismissed him and resumed divesting the Romulan’s body of the thick fur coat.

 

* * *

 

 

Jim had almost forgotten what it was to be warm, but the coat nearly got him there. As he’d suspected, the soldiers had carried no food on them, but they’d each taken a gun. Nyota had even discovered a wicked looking knife on one of them and taken that for herself as well. Spock’s older self, while spurning to accept a weapon, had commandeered the navigation device and promptly marched them out into the ice fields again, abandoning the bodies behind them for discovery.

“Where exactly are we going?” Nyota asked, having to shout over the wind now that they’d left the shelter of the cave. The fur lining around her face muffled her even further.

“There was a Starfleet outpost positioned not far from here in my universe,” the older Vulcan called back. “We must hope it exists here as well.”

Jim grabbed at his shoulder, bringing them all to a halt. “Woah, Starfleet? Look, maybe you’re not aware, but we’re all considered deserters of Starfleet conscription. Wasn’t exactly planning to hand myself in on a platter.”

“Jim,” Nyota snapped. “I’d rather be arrested than die out here. And some of us aren’t far off that second option.” She cast a pointed sidelong look towards McCoy, who was swaying where he stood, uninterested in the conversation one way or another.

Neither option sounded particularly feasible to Jim, but he was clearly outvoted. One by one they waded past him, following the Vulcan as he resumed his purposeful march. Jim growled in frustration, his breath misting before his face.

“We may be able to explain what transpired,” Spock suggested, when Jim caught up to him, though he didn’t seem to be brimming with optimism over the prospect.

Jim didn’t respond, too busy trying to think of yet another escape plan.


	7. Chapter 7

**Stardate 2255.225.**

**Vulcan System.**

**Delta Vega.**

 

It took longer than Spock would have liked to reach the outpost building. He estimated just under three hours, judging by the workings of his internal body clock. He had to assume Nero was distracted by whatever aftermath was involved in destroying a planet. Perhaps Starfleet had arrived earlier than expected, and that was the reason he hadn’t yet come looking for Spock and his other self. It was hardly a distraction they could count on indefinitely. By the time the outpost became visible on the horizon, Doctor McCoy was noticeably flagging, burning an unlikely feverish heat; Kirk could not stop watching the sky with paranoid intensity, stumbling several times in his distraction; and he and his other self were both struggling against lethargy as the cold stole heat and energy and willpower, seeping into the very bones of them.

The entrance was unmanned. He and Kirk threw their shoulders against the frost-sealed door and it broke open with a horrendous metallic crash. Automated lighting tried to turn on at their arrival, flickering feebly the length of the corridor. They stepped inside and pushed the doors closed behind them.

Nyota leaned back against a wall in relief at the relative warmth, pushing down her fur lined hood. “At least we made it here. What now?”

Kirk was staring along the corridor, the disruptor gun in hand. “Doesn’t exactly look well populated. Might be able to take whoever’s manning the place.”

She frowned. “And do what? In what possible way does shooting through a Starfleet base actually _improve_ our situation?”

He looked back at them as though it were obvious. “There’ll be transporters here.”

Spock inclined his head. “While you are likely correct, that does not change the fact of Starfleet being able to track us wherever we might transport to.”

Kirk held out his arms. “Look, I’m trying to find a way out of this. If anyone has a better idea, floor’s open.”

Evidently, no one did.

He nodded. “Right. Okay.” Inspiration seemed to strike and he turned to address the doctor. “Don’t suppose you could get them out? The implants, I mean. We were going to ask you before the whole abducted by Romulans thing.”

McCoy glared. “With a surgery full of equipment and two good eyes, _maybe_. Since none of that is readily available...”

Kirk winced apologetically. “Alright, alright. So maybe some officer here can deactivate them.”

“And I suppose asking nicely is gonna work a charm,” McCoy muttered, his voice low and guttural with scepticism.

“Well, no. But we deal with that when it becomes a problem,” Kirk said decisively. “Everyone ready?”

They began to move along the corridor in a group, Kirk leading and Spock a pace behind, followed closely by Nyota and McCoy, and tailed by Spock’s older self. The other Vulcan’s voice was clipped with barely restrained anger as he asked of them, “Are you planning to simply shoot any opposition you find indiscriminately?”

“No, not _indiscriminately_. You always take out the biggest guy first.” Kirk aimed a withering glance at Spock, whispering as they approached a door. “If this guy really is you, you turn into a real buzzkill. Just so you know.”

“As I have explained to you at least once already, his views are not necessarily mine.” To demonstrate his point, he drew his own stolen weapon from his belt, holding it before him in steady hands.

Kirk gave him a somewhat surprised look.

Spock raised an eyebrow at the scrutiny. “I have no more wish than you to be arrested by Starfleet. Whatever consequences you face, as a non-Terran my own will be considerably more severe.”

Blue eyes examined him, perhaps searching for signs of wavering resolution. Spock opened his expression as much as he was ever able, trying to communicate the truth of his determination.

At last, Kirk nodded. “Guess we’re on the same page then.”

“It would appear so.”

“If you two are just about done _bonding_ ,” Nyota hissed, “you might want to keep your voices down.”

They reached the set of double doors. Spock peered through the inset plastite panel into a sprawling room of machinery, computer terminals and constructs he could not identify. There were no officers or personnel that he could see. The place really did appear abandoned.

They stepped inside. Again, lights flickered on at the movement.

It was quiet, the only sounds the faint buzz of electricity and the external howl of winds against the walls of the outpost. It smelled of oil and old, stale coffee. Thick tubes of wiring snaked haphazardly across the floor, leading to hulking, outdated looking generators that buzzed and vibrated loudly. They edged past them, Spock’s eyes scanning for signs of movement among the shadowy structures.

They passed by an expansive panel of computer screens that each showed surveillance images. Some were of nothing but the empty ice fields, others seemed to be from orbiting satellites and showed the planet from space, presumably in case of approaching ships. Spock wondered fleetingly if any of the cameras had captured Vulcan’s last moments.

A stack of shelving teetered under the weight of badly labelled containers, which upon closer inspection seemed to hold little but geological samples. Kirk poked despondently at the boxes of rocks, lowering his gun with a sigh. “Maybe whoever works here got beamed up to help with Nero’s mess?” he ventured.

“You should not sound so disappointed by the lack of opposition,” the older Vulcan reprimanded quietly. “If you are still set on this course of action, at least now you will be able to access the base’s transporters without resorting to violence.”

“Doesn’t solve the implant problem, though...” Kirk muttered.

“Where will the transporters be?” Nyota asked, peering into the gloom.

“We should look around,” Spock advised. “There may be other supplies here which we can utilise before we leave, food and medicine in particular.”

“I don’t want to waste ages picking apart this junk heap,” Kirk argued. He looked around, eyes landing on one of the computers. “There’s got to be schematics of the place on here, maybe an inventory of some sort...”

He moved towards it.

“Wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

The unfamiliar voice was thick with Scottish brogue. Spock turned quickly on the spot, disruptor pistol held ready, but he could not locate the source. Kirk backed hastily away from the computer.

Movement to the right finally caught his attention, and a Terran emerged from beneath one of the inactive generators, obviously having been working on repairing it. Was it not for their location, Spock would have had difficulty identifying the man as an officer. Clad in overalls, a filthy coat and woollen hat, carrying no visible weapon, he did not appear typical Starfleet.

Both he and Kirk brought up their guns regardless.

The Scotsman quickly raised oil-stained hands beside his head. “Woah! No need for threats. Just trying to stop you electrocuting yourself, laddie.” He pointed a finger at the console Kirk had been about to touch. “That’d be my personal rig. Caught Keenser hovering round it this morning - like I don’t know full well what he was doing, bloody fiend.”

Spock wondered fleetingly who Keenser was, and what he’d done to the computer.

“Watch this,” the Scotsman said, as though in answer. Seemingly dismissing the threat of their guns, he took a wrench from one of the bulging pockets of his coat, edged nearer and tossed it towards the console. It hit the terminal with a sudden flash and crack of electricity, clattering away onto the floor. Spock could smell smoke as circuits fried.

“Gonna have to shut down the mains again to salvage this mess.” He shook his head wryly. “Been waiting for something ever since I dunked him in the filtration tank. Really thought I had him with that one. Who knew the little bastard was amphibious?”

Spock forced himself to discard his curiosity over what was apparently a competition of who could succeed in murder. He exchanged a look with Kirk. The Terran shrugged, equally bemused.

“You and this Keenser are the only Starfleet officers here?”

“Yup,” the Scotsman supplied easily. “Budget cuts, they told us. Bah, I’m well aware it’s because Archer’s a cranky old sod who can’t take no for an answer. Anyway, keep your eye out. Bloody little oyster-face is lurking round here somewhere. He’s a terror for springing nasty surprises when you’re least expecting it.”

It was a strike of luck Spock could scarcely believe, that the outpost be so low on security. Two officers would be easy enough to restrain, if they could just locate the second one.

His older self abruptly swept by him, reaching out to grasp Kirk’s arm as he’d been about to take aim with the disruptor pistol.

“Do not - either of you! - shoot this man. Montgomery Scott was among the closest of your friends, in my universe. I suspect it would be... unwise to change that.”

The man in question looked entirely unconcerned by Jim’s aborted attempt. Hands in his pockets, he cocked his head at the older Vulcan. “We know each other or something? Would have thought I’d remember, but the old moonshine may have killed off a few braincells over the years.”

Spock was growing increasingly intolerant of these cryptic portents of a future that would never come to pass. He was about to say as much when the Scotsman frowned.

“Now that I’ve said it, you all look a wee bit familiar.” He cocked his head first one way and then the other, squinting at them in a peculiar manner. He even pushed back his hat to scratch at his forehead in thought.

Then his eyes flew wide.

“Oh! Oh my god, you’re _them_!”

Nyota’s expression hardened in alarm, Kirk visibly tensed, and somewhere behind them McCoy groaned quietly.

“To whom would you be referring, exactly?”

The Scotsman was practically vibrating with something like excitement. “You’re the deserters who blew up a bloody _planet_ , that’s who!” He thrust his hand out to shake, and when Spock recoiled he grabbed Kirk’s instead without missing a beat. “Honest to god, it’s a real honour. Name’s Scotty. Tell me everything, I’m dying to know how you did it.”

Kirk’s mouth hung slightly open, and he couldn’t quite seem to force it closed as Scotty pumped his hand enthusiastically. He cast a somewhat helpless look over at them.

“Are you saying you believe _us_ to be responsible for the destruction of Vulcan?” Spock asked, if only to confirm he had not misheard or misconstrued the far-fetched implication.

“Well, not _just_ the four of you, obviously. Be damn impressive if it... Wait. Are you saying you _didn’t_ blow up a planet?”

“For what reason do you believe this?” Spock pressed.

The Scotsman jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Top priority alert got sent out to all officers in the quadrant a couple of hours ago. Your four faces plastered all over it. Romulan allies, something or other, said you were in the area. Now, just to be clear, you _don’t_ know how they blew up a planet then?”

Kirk covered his face with both hands, turning to walk a few paces away from them all.

Nyota looked stunned. “There’s... There’s not even an official punishment for something like that. They’ll _execute_ us!”

“Oh, worse than that, I’d imagine,” Scotty offered unhelpfully. “The Admirals aren’t the type of men to let things go that easily. Trust me on that. Hell, how do you think I ended up stuck out here in the first place?”

“Well I’m guessing you weren’t accused of _genocide_ ,” Kirk snapped.

“Nothing so ambitious, I admit.”

The Terran suddenly swung his gun up into position again, swiftly sidestepping the older Vulcan before he could intervene a second time.

“Jim, do not do this.”

“Sorry, but we can’t have him telling Starfleet we’re here.”

“Oh they already know you’re here, laddie.” Scotty wiggled his fingers vaguely in their direction. “Got those wee tracker thingies, haven’t you? Shooting me isn’t gonna change much, in the big scheme of things.”

That seemed to give Kirk pause, but whether it would have changed his mind or not remained unseen. There was a crash and a thud behind them. They turned in alarm, simultaneously trying to keep Scotty in sight.

Doctor McCoy had fallen against one of the computer terminals - thankfully not one with live electricity coursing through, Spock noted. He groped at the terminal in search of purchase, managing to knock over a stack of data PADDs and cause the computer to beep alarmingly. Sweat had sprung out on his forehead and he was visibly losing the fight to remain standing.

“Ah shit,” Kirk swore. He hesitated, then cast a meaningful look at Spock. “Keep an eye on him. He moves, shoot him.”

Then he was darting to help Nyota lever McCoy off the terminal. He got the doctor’s arm braced round his shoulder, staggering slightly when the other man’s weight slumped against him.

“He’s burning up,” Nyota said worriedly. “We should have done something sooner.”

“Yeah you’re right, I should have hailed that med-unit that drove past us on the way - oh wait!”

“God, just shut up and help me.”

She found a chair nearly hidden beneath a stack of well-worn blueprints and swept them aside, then moved back so Kirk could deposit McCoy into the vacant space. They both hovered uncertainly in front of him. Kirk snapped his fingers loudly in the doctor’s face.

“Hey. Still with us?”

Immediately, McCoy tried to swat him away. “Yeah, but I’m starting to wish I wasn’t. Give me some damn space, will you?”

“Where’s your medkit?” Nyota called over her shoulder.

Scotty thought for a second, eyes raised to the ceiling. “Let’s see, last time we needed anything was when that game of poker got out of hand... Should still be in my desk drawer, lass.” He started to move towards it, but Spock held up a hand to stop him.

Kirk jogged towards the indicated drawer, slamming it open and hauling out a metal case. He brought it over to McCoy and opened it. “Okay, what do you need?”

“Antibiotics, painkillers, and a shot of that moonshine he mentioned.”

“Man after my own heart!” Scotty enthused, beaming widely.

Spock sighed.

Nyota took a small bottle of anti-bacterial gel from the kit and quickly scrubbed her hands. Then she reached out to the doctor. “I’ll change the dressing -”

Immediately, McCoy knocked her hand away. “Don’t.”

“What? Why? It needs changing, it’s filthy.”

“Well I damn well don’t want _you_ doing it.” Glowering, he hunched away from her. “Where’s the Vulcan? He can do it.”

“ _The Vulcan_ is otherwise occupied,” Spock responded tightly, refusing to allow his concentration to waver from Scotty. “So allow Nyota to aid you before you contract irreparable infection and we are forced to leave you behind for a better likelihood of escape.”

“You cold-blooded bastard!”

But Nyota looked vindicated, reaching out a second time. “I’ll be careful.”

“...Not that,” the doctor muttered, words barely audible.

She paused, then after a few seconds rolled her eyes. “I’m not squeamish, if that’s what you’re worried about. Now shut up and sit still.”

As she began gently unwrapping bandages, Kirk thrust a small metal canister under McCoy’s nose. “That the right stuff?”

He squinted his eye to read the label. “Have to do, I suppose.”

“How much do I use?”

“That’s one dose. Put it in the hypospray and hand it to me.”

Kirk slotted it into place and slapped the injection into the doctor’s palm, resuming his rummage through the medical supplies. McCoy lifted his chin, angled the hypospray, and with practised ease discharged it into himself.

Nyota hissed sympathetically as she began to peel fabric away from burned flesh. She picked it away with quick, deft fingers, but even so it was evidently an uncomfortable process. Kirk pointedly kept his back turned as she worked. At last it came free and she tossed the soiled bandages somewhere behind her.

Spock glanced across as she pulled off the final piece of wadding. It was indeed an ugly wound. Red, blistered skin stretched from his cheek, up across the hollow of his orbital socket, and encroached into his hairline. One eyebrow and a patch of hair at the temple had been seared away, but that was superficial. The real damage was to the eye, as Spock had suspected. The lid was swollen almost shut, but beneath could be glimpsed a bloody sliver where the sclera had been inflamed crimson, not unlike the result of a severe chemical burn.

Kirk excused himself, slipping away as Nyota set about gathering fresh supplies. He rejoined Spock, shrugging awkwardly when he received a look of askance. “Thought I’d give them some privacy.”

Scotty was watching the proceedings with increasingly enthusiastic winces. “What happened to your friend, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Got shot in the face,” Kirk answered bluntly. “You should see the other guy.”

“He was attempting to defend Nyota,” Spock elaborated. “I believe she is now endeavouring to return the favour.”

Nyota’s expression was neutral, her movements unhurried as she cleaned the weeping burn with a sterile wipe. In contrast, the doctor’s face was flushed with colour, either in reaction to pain or self-consciousness. Nyota made no comment. She deposited a pile of clean bandages into McCoy’s lap and retrieved a tube of anaesthetic gel from the medkit, crouching down in front of him to begin applying it.

“Don’t go making things worse with those damn nails of yours,” he complained, twitching away from her nervously.

She glanced briefly at the cat-like points, quirking half a smile. “I said I’d be careful, didn’t I?”

“Just see that you are.”

Spock turned away from them, refocusing his attention on Kirk, the Scotsman and his other self. “What is our current plan of action?”

Moving to stand at Spock’s side, Kirk purposely turned his back on the other two, his quiet voice carrying to Spock’s ear. “This isn’t going to work. I don’t care if we were supposed to know him in some other life, he’s too much of a liability in this one. McCoy’s out of it, Nyota’s playing nurse, Vulcan 2.0 is peace and love and rainbows and shit.” He took a breath. “So it’s gotta be us. You up for it?”

Scotty’s attention was still taken with the spectacle of McCoy’s injury, so Spock tipped his head in Kirk’s direction, also lowering his voice to the barest of whispers. “Allow me to be certain. You are suggesting that the two of us murder a Starfleet officer?”

“After we get him to take out the implants... yeah. Look, how much difference do you think one kill is going to make on top of the _six fucking billion_ we’re already accused of?” the Terran hissed angrily, his breath skimming across Spock’s jaw. “We can’t just keep him at gunpoint and hope he doesn’t pull something. And there’s the second one he mentioned, wherever he is! Time’s running out as it is, we have to _move_.”

“It would not be in self-defence, as the Romulans were. This would not trouble you?”

Kirk rolled his shoulders. “If it’s necessary, no.”

“Are you asking me to confirm it is necessary?”

“I...” He stopped, staring at Spock as though in deliberation.

A loud and pointed cough recaptured their attention.

Scotty was staring at them with raised eyebrows. “Sorry. Feels like I interrupted a private moment, there.”

Scowling, Kirk stepped further away.

“No? Oh good. Anyway, I’m assuming you boys are huddled over there discussing my upcoming convenient demise?”

They made no effort to deny the fact.

The Scotsman nodded, unsurprised. “Well, before you go doing something rash, let me offer you an alternative that benefits everyone involved, aye?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man’s demeanour visibly changed. “You honestly think I enjoy my life out in this frozen hellhole? Stuck here with only that psychotic little gremlin for company, trying to kill me every five minutes because he’s such a _sore bloody loser_!” He raised his voice on the last phrase, shouting the accusation to the room at large. Nyota and McCoy looked over in alarm. “You wanna know why I’m here in the first place? Because that bastard Archer won’t have me working for anyone else in the ‘Fleet except him, and until I agree this is my personally tailored purgatory.”

Under their bemused scrutiny he took a moment to regain himself, and then finished, “What I’m saying is I have less loyalty to Starfleet than you’re probably imagining. Top and bottom of it is I want out.”

“So?” Kirk asked warily. “What does that have to do with us?”

“You’re my chance, just like I’m yours.”

“Chance for _what_?”

“To get out of here!” The Scotsman gestured expansively. “That’s what you came here for, right? Looking for some way to get off the planet? I can help.”

Evidently baffled by the turn of events, Kirk snorted disbelief. “Yeah, okay. How about you just get these implants to stop broadcasting and we’ll be on our way.”

“You’re not even going to hear me out? I can make it so Starfleet can’t get _near_ you. All I want is to come with.”

“And we’re supposed to just _believe_ that?” Kirk demanded sceptically. Still, Spock noted that he had not yet made another attempt to shoot the man, so perhaps he was more intrigued by the idea than he revealed.

“Believe whatever you like, lad, can’t stop you there. But I thought it worth making the offer. I’d just have to arrest you otherwise, and then no one gets off this godforsaken rock.”

There was something disquieting in the offhand confidence with which he spoke, given that both he and Kirk still had weapons drawn and an inclination to use them.

Spock’s eyes narrowed in sudden comprehension. “You knew we were coming.”

The two Terrans and his other self looked at him.

“When you were given the alert about us being in the vicinity, the implants we carry would have told you we were coming here. You must have expected our imminent arrival. Why did you pretend to be surprised?”

And just like that, the Scotsman’s mask of jovial well-meaning fell away, revealing something sly and cold in pale eyes.

“Suppose you have me there.”

Kirk tightened his grip on the disruptor pistol, looking furious. “I _knew_ you were lying.”

“Only a wee white lie. So I knew to expect you, doesn’t change a word of my offer.”

“What _does_ it change?”

“Well. Had to have a means of subduing four armed criminals if you said no, didn’t I?” He raised two fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply.

There was a sound behind them. Spock started to spin, but Scotty threw up his hands. “ _Don’t_ turn around. Let’s keep this nice and calm now.”

Without moving his body, Spock glanced back over his shoulder. Standing atop one of the power generators was some sort of green, wrinkled creature, and in its hands were two weapons nearly bigger than it was. Before anyone could react, much less stop him, he threw one of the guns straight over their heads and into the Scotsman’s waiting hands.

Spock could only assume they had just been introduced to Keenser.

“This here is your good old-fashioned energy particle assault rifle,” the Scotsman informed them cheerily, patting the gun. “Capable of power settings high enough to blast apart the human torso. Not sure if that holds for Vulcans, but we’ll give it a go, aye?”

Spock let out a slow breath, thinking fast. He and Kirk would undoubtedly be the first targets, but it was possible Nyota and Doctor McCoy might be able to take advantage of the situation.

Anticipating the same thing, Scotty called out, “Don’t even think it, lass. One more step and these two get it in the head.”

She had already started to creep forward, but froze at his warning.

“Right, let’s calm down and talk like civilised people, shall we? Like I said, nothing stopping us all from being friends here.”

“I can think of at least a couple of reasons,” Kirk growled.

“Now, now, you boys set the tone. How about this: I’m not even going to ask you to hand over those pea-shooters you call guns. Just stop pointing them at my head, aye?”

Neither he nor Kirk made any effort to lower the weapons.

The Scotsman sighed. “Fine. Forget friendly, straight to business then. _I_ want out of Starfleet, _you_ want out of Starfleet, our interests line up. Help me or I shoot the two of you in ‘self-defence’ and hand the rest over as my ticket back onto a starship. Not ideal, but better than staying here for the rest of my natural life.”

“I’m not sure I trust someone who doesn’t give me a choice about partnering with them,” Kirk argued.

“Not asking for trust, lad. Just agreement.”

The Terran lowered his voice, addressing Spock. “He’s lying. Got to be.”

“He has no reason to maintain the deception,” Spock observed. “We are effectively at his mercy. That he continues to propose an alliance is actually... convincing.”

Kirk growled low in his throat in utter frustration. He hesitated another moment, then finally dropped the pistol to his side with a curse. “Fine. Talk. What’s your plan? We’ve already wasted enough time as it is.”

Scotty shrugged. “By coming here you may actually have bought yourself some time.”

“How do you figure that?”

“We work something out and I’ll contact the bosses, tell them I’ve got you safely under lock and key and they can take their time sorting out that mess up there. It’ll get us a few hours, at the least.”

Spock lowered his own gun at last, relieved when the Scotsman mirrored the gesture. “Do that now,” he insisted, “and then we may discuss partnership.”

Scotty considered, then gave a nod of agreement. “Aye, alright.”

“I’ll go with you,” Kirk said immediately. “I want to hear anything you say to them.”

“Fine, fine, come on then.”

Before they set off, Scotty moved past Spock to stand at the base of the generator, holding up his arms and gesturing impatiently. They all watched in bemusement as he lifted the alien down and set him on his feet, giving a little expectant shove when he continued to stand there.

“Well go on with you, that’s all I wanted.”

Keenser clicked irritably, swinging his unused assault rifle over his shoulder with enough force that it nearly struck the Scotsman’s groin. Ignoring Scotty’s snarled response, he turned and marched off into the chaotic layout of the outpost, promptly disappearing.

Scotty watched him go. “I’m gonna miss the little guy, now that it’s come to it. Keeps me on my toes, yanno?”

“God, _come on_!”

“Alright, keep your bloody hair on!”

Kirk followed him a short distance away. Spock was careful to ensure they stayed within sight, just in case the Scotsman had any other ideas of ambush.

“Do you believe now that his friendship will be valuable to you?” his other self inquired, with a marked note of smugness.

Spock ignored him.

Nyota approached, her movements slow and overly precise with fatigue. “Everything okay?”

“It would seem we may have found an ally in the officer.”

“Oh. That’s good.” She held a hypospray in hand, lifting it for him to examine as she drew near. “Energy and nutrient shot. Found them in the medkit.”

It had been over three days since any of them had eaten properly. Even Spock was beginning to feel the toll on his physical and mental functions, and he could only imagine how the faster metabolising humans were faring.

“There’s one waiting for Jim, and I already gave one to Leonard and myself. It helps.” She stepped closer to him hesitantly. “May I?”

It was only sensible to accept her help. He nodded, tilting his head accommodatingly to one side.

She pressed the hypospray to his neck. Her fingers brushed his bare skin in doing so, and a flood of unguarded foreign emotion rushed through him. She was terrified, almost paralysed by dread of what would happen next. Exhaustion draped a grey haze across all her thoughts, dimming them, slowing them down to a crawl. Hunger was a constant, gnawing distraction. But beneath those things was hot fury at it all - Nero’s abduction, Rekar’s assault, Starfleet’s erroneous accusation. It fuelled her, kept her moving, unpleasant but effective.

He controlled his instinctive flinch, reluctant to reveal he had stolen insight without her permission or knowledge. It was a relief when quick sharp pain indicated deployment of the hypospray and she drew away from him.

“See. Not so bad. Give it a moment and you’ll feel good as new.” She smiled wanly.

He studied her face and posture, privately surprised that no trace of emotional turmoil was betrayed in either. Humans were typically emotive beings, but had he not felt it first hand, he would have been deceived into believing the increasingly disastrous situation took no toll on her.

Frankly, he was impressed.

She moved towards his older self, accepting his habitually blank expression in stride. “There’s another one. If you need it, I mean.”

The older Vulcan’s mouth twitched at the corner, a telling sign of emotion. He carefully pressed the offered hypospray back into her hand, patting her fingers closed around it without hesitation. Spock felt a flash of envy at the easy contact. He looked away.

“Keep it for yourselves, Nyota. You need it more than I.”

She seemed taken aback by the familiar use of her name, but not nearly as offended as Kirk had been. She nodded, and slipped the energy shot back into her pocket.

“Is Doctor McCoy able to continue?” Spock asked, if only to interrupt the charged atmosphere.

She glanced back at the injured Terran and hitched a shoulder. “He’ll have to be.”

That was true enough, at least.

“So you can’t take them out? Deactivate them? _Something_?” Kirk’s voice carried ahead of him as he and the Scotsman returned.

“’Fraid not. No idea how they’re made or how they work. Wouldn’t wanna go fiddling in case I made something worse.”

Spock felt the sinking sensation of disappointment. He had not realised how much faith he had placed in Kirk’s idea of coercing an officer to remove the implants, not until it was confirmed impossible. He let out a breath. There would be no running now. What point to it?

Clearly Kirk was thinking along the same lines. His shoulders slumped, and his expression turned sullen. “Then why even bother going through all this? Why make a deal with us if you _knew_ you couldn’t -”

“Hold on now. Give me some credit. I do have... _one_ idea worth looking at.”

“What’s that?”

The Scotsman grinned. “Alpha.”

They stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Oh come on, _Alpha_? Sif Alpha? Former defence outpost in the Omega Leonis sector? You have to have heard of it.”

“Omega Le- Isn’t that _Klingon space_?!”

“Well, technically yes. But believe it or not, it’s generally considered safe haven.”

“Why the hell would -”

“I have heard of it,” Spock interrupted. When they all looked at him for elaboration, he added, “In my first year living on Terra, I knew an Orion female who claimed she intended to seek passage to Sif Alpha. She advised me to accompany her, on the grounds that the opportunities for xeno individuals were far more plentiful there than anywhere in the Empire. I’ve since learned that many non-Terrans make attempts to reach the outpost.”

“Why there in particular?”

“See, that’s the beauty of it,” Scotty resumed. “Whole place is outside government control. _Any_ government. Including Klingon.”

“How does that work?” Nyota asked. “If it’s in Klingon controlled space, surely it belongs to them.”

“Maybe on paper, but I’m telling you, _no one_ has had any practical ownership of this place in decades. That’s the appeal. Might as well be be walking into the old wild west. Only... with space ships and aliens and what-have-you.”

“You are understating the matter,” Spock accused. “Sif Alpha runs on the dogma of survival of the fittest. It is not as free of rulership as you would have us believe, but rather controlled by whichever mercenary force happens to have seized violent control of the outpost at any given time. There is no law and little safety to be found there. It may be regarded as a haven for non-Terrans, but most who thrive there are criminals, exiles and pariahs.”

“Sounds just about right for you lot then,” the Scotsman snapped, once again letting slip a glimpse of the coldness behind all his false smiles. In a second it was gone, and he turned to Kirk with upturned, appealing hands. “Okay yeah, he’s right about all that, but just hear me out. Klingons don’t interfere with Alpha because it’s such a lucrative business. You’ve got your Terran smugglers bringing in weapons and other goods from the Empire. Orion slave traders bringing in flesh. Drug runners selling crates of the good stuff. Rare livestock, stolen valuables, illegal tech - you name it, it passes through Sif Alpha. And the Klingons make sure they get a tidy cut of everything. You can imagine how overly protective they might be of such a place.”

Nyota’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned. “So if we could actually get there, we’d effectively be out of reach...”

“Starfleet hasn’t even been able to get into the same sector for over a century,” Scotty confirmed. “There’s many an Imperial turncoat living it up out there they’d love to get their hands on.”

“So even though they’d know we’re there, there’s nothing they could do about it,” Kirk surmised, nodding. He was clearly warming to the idea, and despite Spock’s own misgivings he had to admit it had more potential than any idea they’d arrived at so far.

“How would we get there, though?” Nyota asked reasonably.

The Scotsman pointed at her. “And _that_ , lass, is exactly why I’m bothering to make you the offer. Can’t get there on my own. Need a crew first.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Stardate 2255.225.**

**Vulcan System.**

**Delta Vega.**

 

The ship was an Antares-class freighter docked in the west wing of the outpost. Jim had seen them back in the shipyard a few times. Usually pretty hardy things, this one had been deeply scarred along one side of its hull and a hole had obviously been recently patched closed.

“Got hit in a meteor storm,” Scotty informed them. “Its crew dropped it off here for repairs a couple of months ago, been working on it off and on.”

Spock studied the ship dubiously. “It is space-worthy?”

“Oh yeah. Some of my best work’s gone into putting her back in one piece. Even worked in some upgrades while no one was looking. She may not be the prettiest anymore, but she’ll damn well do the job.”

“And what’s the recommended crew complement?” Kirk asked.

“Ah. Well. Typically you’d want a minimum of twelve.”

“ _Twelve_? Even including you, we have less than half that! That’s not even taking into account that none of us have any training or flight experience.” Apparently he had already discounted the notion of the older Vulcan accompanying them, for which Spock felt strangely grateful.

“Speak for yourself,” Scotty protested. “I’ve spent most of my career on one ship or another, listening to captain after captain talk out of their arse to me. Just off the back of fixing their mistakes I’ve got enough practical experience to run my own damn ship.”

“And that’s what you’re expecting to do here, is it? Elect yourself captain and -”

“Some captaincy that’d be. Bunch of untrained, trigger-happy, wet behind the ears -”

“I’m starting to think this isn’t going to work,” Kirk snapped.

Spock cleared his throat. “I believe I have a working theoretical knowledge of navigational systems. If that influences your decision in any way.”

Argument derailed, they both turned to stare at him intently. Kirk narrowed his eyes. “How ‘working’ exactly?”

When Spock had been fifteen, he’d developed an interest in navigational theory. It had been one of many diversionary tactics, something to occupy an understimulated mind. He’d looked first at Terran vehicles as the most readily available; traditional ocean-faring ships and submarines, largely. The notion of traversing such vast expanses of water had fascinated him. Growing up on an overcrowded space station, water had been for drinking and little else. Even now, he could still summon a clear image of the ship schematics he had studied, the training simulators, the textual manuals, the sea charts and water current maps.

And when he’d exhausted that area of study, space navigation had seemed the natural progression.

Considering his answer carefully, he eventually said, “Given opportunity to familiarize myself with ship systems, I believe I am more than capable of plotting safe, efficient courses of travel.”

The Scotsman hummed under his breath. “‘Safe’ may not be what we’re looking for, but I suppose we’ll take it in a pinch.” He clapped his hands. “Alright, what other bits of skill can we scrape together?”

For a moment it seemed as if there’d be nothing. Then Nyota raised her hand.

“I took piloting classes in college.”

Kirk blinked at her in surprise.

“I mean, nothing extensive. But I took a shuttle up a couple of times, and a cargo ship a bit smaller than this one. Thought it’d look good on my Starfleet application.”

“Why didn’t I know that?” he asked, sounding slightly offended.

She shrugged defensively. “I was half afraid you’d ask me to steal something bigger than a bike. Of course, now you actually _are_ , so...”

Scotty bounced on his heels. “So we’ve got our pilot, our navigator, I’m your engineer. What can you do, pretty boy?”

“Not a whole lot,” Kirk admitted easily enough.

“He’s a quick study, though,” Nyota argued. “Don’t let the airhead act fool you.”

“Guess you’re learning the tricks of the trade on the job then,” Scotty concluding, sounding as though it was less than his ideal scenario. “And Scarface over there can scare off anyone looking to board us.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Anyway, we looking round the inside?” Under McCoy’s black glare, the Scotsman made a hasty retreat towards the freighter.

They followed.

 

* * *

 

 

The bridge of the ship wasn’t as big as Spock had been expecting. A viewscreen stretched the length of most of the front wall, and below that a compact control console sported only two seats, presumably for pilot and navigator respectively. Other consoles stretched either side of the small space, though Spock wasn’t as sure of their function.

“There are some personal quarters just back there,” Scotty explained, pointing to a short corridor. “Bit cramped, to be honest. Most of the space on board is reserved for cargo and engines.”

Spock moved to take his seat at the navigational terminal. He touched the screen lightly and it lit up for him. His eyes immediately began scanning the reels of data which flared to life, fingers tapping and exploring. He remembered this math and physics as if he had studied it yesterday, his teenage interest so thoroughly captured. His mind played quickly through equations and calculations while his hands deftly programmed them into the computer, testing his own understanding of the task.

“Enjoying yourself?” Nyota teased gently as she took to the pilot’s seat next to him.

“I am,” he admitted.

“Bring up a map,” Scotty instructed him, snapping his fingers with excited impatience. “I’ll show you where we’d be going.”

Spock typed commands rapidly into the computer, and on the viewscreen appeared a glittering galaxy map. He tapped another set of buttons and enlarged the Beta Quadrant.

“So this is us, over here,” Scotty explained, cirlcing his finger around a solar system on the mid-left edge of the map. Then he trailed it down to the lower-right corner. “And this is where we want to be. This whole block is Omega Leonis. More specifically, we want to get to the Qo’noS sector, Sif system.”

“That’s a hell of a distance,” Kirk commented, as though the true scale of it was only now dawning on him. “Starfleet would be on us before we crossed a third of it - and that’s just assuming we make it out of Vulcan space.”

“Not necessarily,” Scotty argued. “See, you may not have heard, but as of late there’s a war on.”

“So? That makes things _worse_.”

“Not for us it doesn’t. Standing orders for the majority of the fleet is to pack in tight around whichever planets happen to be valuable to the Empire. They’re all busy playing guard dogs right now.”

“And you’re willing to gamble they won’t come after us if we just... What? Keep well enough away?”

“They’ll know exactly where we’re going, lad. It doesn’t take a genius. And with that being said, they won’t have to chase after us. All they have to do is intercept us before the Klingon border, where they’ll be patrolling _anyway_ , and pick us up easy as you please.”

“And this is a _good_ thing?!”

“It’s a _surmountable_ thing, that’s the important part. I’m telling you, with the upgrades I’ve made to this baby, she’s as agile as you get. We can get past, I promise. All we need to do is cross that border and we’re home free. Starfleet won’t launch open invasion for the sake of five stowaways.”

“You’re hoping,” Kirk muttered. “And let’s just say all this goes off without a hitch, what happens once we’re in Omega Leonis? We give a friendly wave as we sail past the Klingons?”

“No. Like anything else, we pay our way, is all.”

“With what?”

The Scotsman threw out his arms. “We’re gonna be flying a cargo ship. With any damn thing we can cram into it!”

Spock intercepted before one of the Terrans lost their patience. “In our admittedly brief time here at the outpost, I have seen nothing of value sufficient enough to use in buying our passage through openly hostile territory. What exactly are you planning to barter?”

“I’d like an answer to that too before we go cruising off on a wing and a prayer,” Kirk said. “Oh, and another thing. How do you _know_ all this?”

Scotty shrugged. “Got a friend who set himself up on Alpha last year. We keep in touch. And as for what we’re going to barter, I may have a few treasure troves stashed about the place. Don’t you worry your pretty wee heads about it.”

When no one looked particularly convinced, the Scotsman sighed exaggeratedly. “Alright fine, first thing first - we’re going to need enough fuel cells with us that we don’t have to dock anywhere on the way. Then the payment.” He patted the assault rifle he still wore slung over one shoulder. “Got a stash of these and other weapons in storage we can pack up. And there’s some not strictly legal computer programs I use on occasion that we can save and take with.”

“Don’t forget the moonshine,” McCoy muttered, slumping down into one of the chairs.

“Course I won’t forget the bloody moonshine, what do you take me for?”

“Is there a replicator on board?”

“Yup, so food’s not a worry.” The Scotsman glanced around at each of them, holding out his arms in question. “Well? Are we all convinced yet?”

Kirk gave one last begrudging frown. “How long is it going to take to get there?”

“Well, what a lot of people don’t realise about space travel is that it all depends on a wide range of interstellar conditions - any electrical or magnetic fields you might pass through, gaseous density, subspace fluctuations -”

Spock finished typing and examined the calculation he’d generated. “Should we adhere to the recommendation of passing exclusively through unpopulated areas and maintaining a consistent velocity of Warp 3, current ETA at the Klingon border is fifteen days, three hours and fifty two minutes.”

“ _Two weeks_?”

“That is without taking into account the additional three days it will require to reach Sif Alpha itself.”

“What are we supposed to do for nearly three weeks inside this metal tube you call a ship?”

Scotty jabbed a thumb vaguely over his shoulder. “Think I’ve got a pack of cards somewhere in the... No?”

 

* * *

 

 

It was not long before it occurred to Spock that he had lost track of his other self. Leaving Nyota to continue her exploration of the ship’s computer system, he stepped outside and looked around. The older Vulcan had separated himself from the others and was standing some distance away next to one of the small heating generators, gaze cast out over the rest of the storage facility.

Spock moved to stand next to him, resting his hands in the small of his back. They were quiet for a few moments, before Spock broke the reverie.

"You are not coming with us."

His other self glanced at him. "That does not sound like a question."

"It is not," Spock agreed. "The fact is I do not wish you to accompany us."

"Because of my unwanted familiarity with yourself and your new companions."

"Among other things, yes." Though in truth, Spock suspected that such familiarity was at least partially illusionary. James Kirk was not the heroic captain he had glimpsed in the other Vulcan's thoughts, Leonard McCoy not the kindly doctor, nor Nyota the soft-hearted communications officer. That the older Vulcan could not seem to see beyond those ghosts of memory was disconcerting, and potentially hazardous.

"You are fortunate, then, that I had no intention of joining you."

Surprised, Spock studied him in periphery. "Oh?"

He half-chuckled. "I do not think myself suited to the life of a pirate."

"We are hardly pirates."

"You are in the midst of stealing a ship and all the valuable cargo it can transport. How else would you describe yourselves?"

Reluctantly, Spock conceded the point. "Then what will you do?"

He drew a long, contemplative breath. "I shall remain here, and await Starfleet. Someone must inform them of Nero's involvement in... what happened here today."

"Do not inform them of your own," Spock advised immediately. "Starfleet is not what you think it is. They are not benevolent explorers, not curious or peaceful. If they believe you at all, it will be to your detriment. As I have been tied to your crimes, so will you be tied to mine."

"And what crimes they are."

Spock bristled at the judgemental tone. "You opinion on the matter is unsolicited."

"Nevertheless, I am struggling to comprehend the version of myself you represent. I watched you take lives today as if they did not matter to you."

"Likely because they did not."

"I understand that there are times when lethal force is necessary, but surely you cannot harbour a true taste for violence-"

"And what is the consequence if I do?"

The direct question seemed to leave the older Vulcan at a loss. He shook his head helplessly, mouth open on the verge of a protest.

Spock stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I have told you already that we two are not alike, but it seems you still fail to comprehend my meaning. One final time, then: I share neither your need for diplomacy, your fearful passivity, nor your moralising tendencies. If blood must stain my hands in order to survive, I can find no objection.”

The older Vulcan shook his head, either in denial or disapproval. “I must remind myself again that you were not raised as I was.”

“Not a Vulcan, you mean to say.” Spock let his upper lip curl derisively. “Perhaps that is for the best. The only truth I know of Vulcans is that they allowed themselves to be conquered by a physically and technologically inferior race, thereby facilitating the Empire. They lived in oppression, and today they died without protest. Why should I wish to be Vulcan? At least the Terrans taught me strength.”

His other self looked like he’d been struck. For the first time, real anger was betrayed in his expression. Spock welcomed it, finally glimpsing something that looked even halfway familiar to him.

Then laughter rang out, breaking the tension.

They turned in time to see Kirk and Scotty struggling to carry a crate of fuel cells between them. The Scotsman was gasping and sweating under the exertion, Kirk grinning sharply at him.

His older self watched their progress intently.

Eventually he sighed, some of the rigidity leaving his shoulders. With obvious and conscious effort to set aside the discussion, he simply said, “Alike or not, it would seem our first destiny is always to be aboard a ship with James Kirk at its helm.”

“He is not my captain.”

The other Vulcan’s mouth twitched at the corners. “Give him time.”

 

* * *

 

 

They were as prepared as possible.

The store rooms were full to bursting. Both he and Nyota had taken rapid crash courses in the workings of the ship systems. Scotty had busied himself making final adjustments down in the engine room. They had all made stilted, perfunctory goodbyes to Keenser and Spock’s older self, who had retreated back into the main generator room as though reluctant to witness their parting.

All that remained was the act of powering up the ship and actually departing the planet.

They had taken up their positions on the bridge. The docking clamps had been detached, the doors opened, and they stared through the viewscreen at the expanse of white sky waiting for them.

“You really think we can pull this off?” Kirk asked quietly.

The Scotsman made a see-saw gesture with his hand. “Ish? Course, you can always change your minds. I’d have to hand you in, but we might all avoid dying in a fiery explosion when they blow us out of orbit.”

“Christ...” McCoy muttered, dragging a hand over his jaw.

“Anyone feel like taking him up on the offer?” Kirk asked. “Last chance to back out.”

Spock briefly considered what would happen should Starfleet take them into custody. People would say Kirk was living up to his father’s disgraced name, exceeding it even. Few would be surprised. Nyota would quickly lose that determination he admired in her, the shining defiance in her eyes. She would not cope well with captivity. But Doctor McCoy, he suspected, would be the first of them to succumb to despair, having courted it for as long as Spock had known him. And Spock himself... He was a non-Terran thought to have been involved in the most extreme act of terrorism ever committed. His fate was iron-clad. Even dying in the escape attempt would be preferable.

“So we’re all agreed?” Kirk prompted, when no one made a last minute bid at backing out. “We’re doing this?”

“I believe we are,” Spock confirmed, relishing the sense of certainty that at last settled in his mind. The others were nodding, faces hard as the weight of the decision fell upon them.

Kirk looked around at each of them in turn, no doubt considering how minuscule their chances of success. Even between them, Spock and Nyota’s combined knowledge of space flight was flawed and largely theoretical at best. Doctor McCoy was as of yet no practical use to any of them in operating a ship. Scotty possessed the most experience, but his professed speciality was in managing engines and tributary systems, not navigating them away from Starfleet pursuit. And Kirk himself... Truthfully, Spock found he could not estimate the Terran’s skill range. He was certainly the son of a Starfleet family, but Spock had seen no evidence of either the same talent or ambition in all the months he’d watched Kirk drink, brawl and thieve his way through evenings at the Shipyard Bar.

Blue eyes met his own assessing stare, and despite himself Spock straightened in his chair. For a fleeting second he saw a second image in his mind’s eye, superimposed atop the other man. A golden uniform, a Starfleet insignia, James Kirk gazing out into the vastness of space like it was his own personal challenge.

Then it was gone, and the actual Kirk stood smirking at him in his battered leathers.

“Yeah. We’re ready.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was a clumsy ascent. Breaking the atmosphere caused enough turbulence to rattle Jim's teeth in his skull.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Nyota's hands flew over the terminal as she struggled to bring the freighter back under control. "It's been a while since I've done this."

Scotty hurried over to the station. "Just try not to crash us into a satellite, lass." His eyes scanned her screen. "You have activated inertial dampeners, right?"

"...Uhm."

"Christ, what was I thinking. This is going to be a right sodding disaster."

"I can do it!" she snapped. "Back off and let me figure it out."

Hands clenched in his woollen hat, the Scotsman walked away from her in frustration.

Jim ignored him, biting his lip as he willed her to get it right. Slowly their passage evened out and she sat back in her chair with more confidence. They left orbit and sailed into the blackness of space, and his breath caught on an excitement he hadn’t expected. The stars were laid out before them like the promise of freedom.

"Good. You ready to take us to warp?"

"Yes. Just let me -"

Jim's station beeped shrilly. He looked down at in surprise, then winced. "Uh, I think we're being hailed."

As he spoke, a Starfleet ship dropped out of warp directly ahead of them. Scotty swore profusely. In contrast, Jim was struck speechless by the sheer size of the thing. Somehow the half-constructed skeletons back at the shipyard hadn't done the real thing justice.

"Patch it through. Might as well."

He pressed the button numbly. A stern looking face flashed up on the viewscreen, familiar silver hair and eyepatch causing Jim's heart to sink even further.

"Kirk, we meet again," Pike said from the comfort of his captain's chair. "I see you're still living up to that family name. Winona and Sam must be so proud."

Jim glared, once again feeling the sting of needled pride.

"And Lieutenant Scott, you surprise me. You had such a promising career ahead of you, once. Why throw yourself in with the chaff now?"

"I'd have to say it's the chance to work with enterprising young minds, sir."

"Hmm."

Jim stepped forward. "Captain. We had nothing to do with Vulcan. We didn't even intentionally skip out on conscription." He didn't really think he'd be believed, but at this point there was no harm in trying.

Pike leaned his chin on his fist. "Save it. You think I give a shit about conscription penalties? You think anyone does? The fact is I'm intercepting you fleeing the scene of a terrorist strike on a stolen Starfleet vessel. Trust me, when they're sweeping up the tiny pieces of your ship that's all anyone will know or care about."

"Get us moving," Jim said under his breath, voice low and urgent.

But Nyota shook her head. "Warp drive isn't engaging."

"I put the shields up," Scotty explained. "Can't jump until they're down again, but it's not looking like that's a good idea right now. They're locked on us."

On the viewscreen, Pike smiled lazily. “Think of it this way, son. At least you’ll be the Kirk who went down with his ship.”

The connection cut.

Scotty swore again. “They’re firing! Get us out of here!”

“Attempting evasive manoeuvres,” Nyota said through gritted teeth, rapidly manipulating controls. Phaser burst barely missed them as they darted away.

“Try to keep abreast of them,” Spock advised, bringing up an image of their positions on-screen. “Constitution-class ships are typically equipped with front-facing weaponry. It will have difficulty targeting us if we stay close at its side.”

“Doing it now.”

“And how long is that going to work?” Jim protested. “The idea is to get _away_!”

“Well we’re waiting for your bright idea on that! Jump in any time!”

But there was no bright idea to be had. They’d been banking on at least having a head start into unpopulated space before Starfleet realised what they were doing. To be caught right at the starting line took away almost all their options. Agile or not, there was no outrunning a constitution-class warship.

Still, it seemed that Spock had been right about them having trouble taking aim. The rain of phaser fire stopped, the massive ship unable to turn fast enough to keep up with them. Jim thought it a pity that the freighter didn’t come equipped with weapons of its own. They might at least have been able to do some damage to the other’s hull and underside before being taken down.

Which was a fate rapidly approaching.

“Shit. They’re firing a torpedo.”

“Don’t think I can -”

The viewscreen flashed a warning seconds before it hit them. Jim clung to his station in an attempt to steady himself as the freighter shuddered violently. McCoy was less fortunate, stumbling into a wall panel.

“Ah Christ, shields down to thirty two percent. They’re not gonna take another hit like that.”

They weren’t going to pull it off, Jim realised. Unable to extract themselves, they were going to be unceremoniously blasted out of the sky before their daring escape attempt even got properly underway. It didn’t seem fair.

“Two minute respite before they can fire another one,” Scotty advised. “Ideas? Anyone?”

They were silent, as each of them came to the same conclusion. Phaser fire still lit up the darkness of space, preventing them from dropping the shields and re-entering warp. Even had they been able to, it was little trouble for Pike’s faster ship to give chase. They were going to fail.

Spock squinted at his computer screen, then glanced back over his shoulder at them. “There’s something else approaching -”

The ship seemed to crash out of warp right on top of them. Jim saw Nyota duck instinctively as the viewscreen was filled with the dark, massive underside of another vessel. It skimmed over them, so close they barely avoided scraping a grove the length of it.

“What the hell is that?!”

“It would appear to be another Romulan ship,” Spock answered calmly.

“Nero’s?”

“I cannot tell.”

Not that it mattered. It surged over them like a behemoth, completely dwarfing the freighter. Weapons fire lit the darkness as it immediately engaged the Starfleet vessel, blasting it with a savage burst of its disruptor canon. Apparently taken by surprise, Pike didn’t get his own shields up in time, and the shot made direct contact with his primary hull. Then, as he began to return fire, two more Romulan ships materialised on his flank.

“It’s another ambush,” Nyota hissed. “They’re doing it again, taking out the first responders.”

“Good,” Jim said bluntly. “Drop the shields.”

“What?”

“Drop the shields so we can go to warp. Does it look like anyone’s paying attention to us right now? We can get out of here while they blow each other up.”

“Right you are, Captain Perfect Hair,” Scotty mocked, nevertheless hurrying to follow the suggestion.

“Setting course.”

Jim took a breath and held it, new hope igniting in his chest.

“Shields are down. Ready when you are.”

“Entering Warp 3 now.”

Almost immediately, everything visible in the viewscreen disappeared into the blue slipstream of space-time. No one moved or said anything. Like him they were waiting, braced for one of the enemy ships to come tearing after them.

It didn’t happen.

Minutes drifted by and nothing.

When Jim saw Spock at last take his poised hands away from his terminal, he let out a little uncontrolled laugh, full of mystified relief. Nyota glanced back at him, her smile mirroring his own. Scotty patted his hand against the ship wall as though in praise.

They hadn’t failed. Not yet at least.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I won't be updating for at least a couple of weeks, just because this is the end of the first story arc, and as I move into the second I'd just like some time to make sure I have the overview and plot clear in my head. Just wanted to let you know in case anyone starts wondering why I don't update next Thursday. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought of arc one!

**Stardate 2255.233.**

**Celes Sector.**

**Veela System.**

 

“Am I a woman?”

Jim couldn’t help it: he giggled. The sight of the poker faced Vulcan with a playing card tacked to his forehead, forced to ask increasingly ridiculous questions as the game progressed, was just too much for him. Even Scotty snorted inelegantly into his drink.

Spock let out a long-suffering sigh at their reactions. “As you outlined the rules of the game to me, that is a perfectly valid question.”

With heroic effort, Jim calmed himself. “No, you’re right, sorry. Uhm, yes you are in fact a woman.”

“Am I a contemporary of this century?” After he’d failed to guess the last twentieth century author Jim had assigned him, the Vulcan was evidently learning to be cautious.

“This time, yes.”

Spock thought for a moment. “Am I someone you think highly of?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “You can’t ask that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it needs a subjective answer,” Scotty chimed in, tipping back the last of his whiskey. “Stick to the factual and it’s an easier game.”

“Nevertheless, I feel hearing the answer would provide me greater insight.”

“Sure I think highly of her. She’s pretty hot.”

The Vulcan levelled a vaguely disapproving look at him, but nevertheless seemed to accept the answer. He thought for a moment, wearing an expression of intense concentration, then set about the serious business of a thorough investigation. Twenty minutes drifted by as Spock asked every conceivable question after question, meticulous in his focus. By the end he had established her exact age, race, place of birth, and the colour of her hair - and still, clearly, had no idea who he was supposed to be.

"Think _celebrity_ ," Jim advised, chin resting heavily on his hands.

"The perimeters I have established still include too many women to make an accurate identification."

"So guess!" Scotty urged, flinging up his hands.

"The point of the game is not to guess, but to -"

Jim hung his head. "Oh my god, it's Siren. That's who you are. She's one of the most famous singers in the Empire, you know that right?"

Spock blinked. "I have never heard of her." With her name still plastered across his forehead it was a ludicrous statement. Jim couldn't contain the sudden laughter that bubbled out of him.

"This is the last guessing game I play with a Vulcan," Scotty grumbled tiredly. "No sense of intuition."

Just over a week had passed since their escape from Delta Vega. The first six hours had seen everyone caught in a state of fearful vigilance. Even flagging with exhaustion, neither Spock nor Nyota had dared to leave their stations, locked on high alert for approaching ships. Scotty had busied himself trying to repair the shields, Jim helping where he was able. McCoy, at a loss for useful skills to contribute in flying a ship, had taken it upon himself to power up the replicators and at least provide them with much needed food. They'd eaten at their stations, getting crumbs all over Scotty's precious machinery.

At last had come the conviction that they really had escaped without pursuit, and with that the need to rest had finally overcome them. Spock had programmed in a course and they'd set the ship on autopilot, only Scotty remaining awake to take the 'night' shift.

Since then it had become a balancing act. If they were forced to pass through a system more populated than they would have liked, then Spock, Nyota and Scotty took up control positions, but otherwise the responsibilities were shared as much as possible with Jim and McCoy. They had to be. Work shifts were set in place that allowed them to sleep in short stints, two at a time, as Jim and McCoy were hurriedly educated in the respective specialities.

For the moment, however, they were travelling through a system which contained almost nothing of value, and so Starfleet's presence was all but non-existent. For a rare few hours they could rely solely on the ship's autopilot to take them along Spock's pre-programmed route. Hence the freedom to sit around the bridge playing stupid games.

Spock took the card from his forehead, flipping it over to verify the name. Then he tossed it into the growing pile amassing between them. They’d been using Scotty’s playing cards, scribbling names onto the unmarked sides.

“Alright, my turn,” Jim announced. “Am I a guy?”

“Yes.”

“Still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Are they someone you think highly of?” He smirked, mirroring Spock’s own set of questions.

"I have never had cause to form a personal opinion of him one way or another, though I believe he is generally held in high regard throughout the Empire."

"Hey! Quit giving him extra information!" Scotty protested. "I'll answer the questions from now on, shall I?"

Grinning, Jim turned to address him instead. "Am I a... civilian?"

"No."

"Royal?"

"No."

"Starfleet then." Made sense. They'd been listening in on news broadcasts whenever they passed close enough to civilization, and the only names on everyone's lips were those of the captains, commodores and admirals who were preaching Imperial unity and strength in the wake of disaster. "God, I'm not Pike, am I?"

"Nope, keep guessing."

"Am I older than fifty?"

"Yup."

"Sixty?"

"Think so."

"Am I Archer?"

Scotty made a disgusted noise. " _No_."

Jim chuckled. "Alright, alright. So give me a clue."

Spock looked affronted. "I did not receive any additional clues."

"You didn't ask," Jim pointed out.

The Vulcan gave another resigned sigh. "Very well. You rose to repute in the year 2248. Is that sufficient?"

Jim sat up straighter, a chill settling in his stomach. He knew. He knew straight away what name they had given him. “Why did I... 'rise to repute'?"

"That is not a yes or no question -"

" _Why_?"

Spock and Scotty exchanged glances, finally sensing the awkward territory they'd strayed into. Scotty hurriedly busied himself refilling his drink, so Spock answered.

"You were commended for the drastic measures you took on Tarsus IV. The colony was at the time overcome by a virulent rot, which ultimately destroyed more than seventy percent of all food supplies on the planet. The admiralty were impressed that the actions you took saved over half the colony's eight thousand strong population, when rightfully many more should have died."

Listening to it described so clinically felt like a slap. Jim huffed air through his nose, snatched the card from his forehead and tossed it into the discard pile without bothering to check the name. "That's such bullshit."

Spock frowned. "I assure you, that is an accurate account of -"

He stood up. "And what the fuck would _you_ know about it?"

Evidently taken aback by the outburst, Spock opened his mouth to defend himself with typical obstinate rationality. Then he stopped. His eyes narrowed in abrupt realisation. "You were there."

Scotty looked at him in shock, then cringed. "Ah shit, course you were. That's where George Kirk..."

Jim felt his face heat up spectacularly. He hadn't meant to give away so much so freely, but even now the thought of Kodos being _commended_ for that massacre caused a twist of hatred in his chest he couldn't quite conceal.

"I didn't even think," Scotty apologised. "Look, I'll give you a different card, just -"

"It's fine," he said quickly, making an effort not to snap the words. "Think I'm just gonna go get some sleep while I can."

He turned on his heel and left them, eager for the distance. It was a short walk down a small corridor to get to the personal quarters, where the five of them slept at varying intervals. Personal space wasn’t something they got a lot of - which, incidentally, had made it damn difficult to conceal the vial of red matter he’d brought with him onto the ship.

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t yet told any of the others about it. He didn’t even want to still have the damn thing, but he’d known that leaving it behind for Starfleet to find was up there on the list of bad ideas. So it had come with him, and for the most part he tried not think about what would happen if the freighter really did blow up, red matter and all. It would be a nasty surprise for whoever took them out, at least.

When it came to hiding the thing, he’d resorted to channelling his inner teenager and stashing it under the mattress of his bed. So far it had resulted in some spectacularly bad nights’ sleep.

Reaching the door to the personal quarters, he hit the button and waited for it to slide open.

He froze on the threshold.

Nyota was sat in a chair in the middle of the room facing a mirror. McCoy stood behind her, a pair of scissors in hand. Her long hair was damp and combed out down her back, the scissors primed to cut.

“Uhm?”

She met his eyes in the mirror. “Hey. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine. What are you doing?”

“Dancing the polka,” McCoy muttered. “What does it look like?” As he spoke, he used one hand to pull her hair taught and slid the blades gently across the nape of her neck. A long swathe of black drifted to the floor, discarded.

Jim blinked. “Why are you cutting your hair?”

She hitched a shoulder, watching impassively as the doctor sliced away another length. “Too easy to grab when it’s long. Learned that the hard way.”

Unsure how else to react, Jim half laughed. “And you’re trusting him to do it?”

McCoy pointed the scissors at him. “Half-blind or not, I’ll have you know I have _legendarily_ skilled hands.”

Nyota let out a little snort of amusement, raising an intrigued eyebrow.

Having cut most of the length away now, the doctor carefully twisted the upper layers into a topknot so he could concentrate on the underneath, securing it there with an elastic tie Nyota must have given him. He wore half a smile as he worked, perhaps aware of the somewhat silly sight he made trying to play hairdresser. His hands, steadier now that he’d been drinking again, gently and precisely tucked away stray strands before he took up the scissors again.

Jim felt distinctly like he'd walked in on something intimate.

He gestured awkwardly back over his shoulder. "So, uh, hope it turns out... looking nice." Ignoring the strange looks they shot him, he backed out of the room and let the doors slide shut again. Standing there staring at nothing in particular, it occurred to him that he and Nyota probably wouldn't be resuming their arrangement of casual sex any time soon. He sighed, somewhat disappointed at the loss.

He turned around, then hesitated. The problem was, there was nowhere else to go on the small ship. The cargo rooms were packed floor-to-ceiling with literally anything of value that Scotty had been able to strip from the Delta Vega outpost, and in any case were hardly a place to find comfort or relaxation. And with the personal quarters otherwise occupied, there were very few options in terms of where to sit himself.

So it was with some embarrassment that he wandered back towards the bridge, not minutes since stalking away in high offence. Scotty had disappeared down to the engine room when he got back, and Spock was sat at the navigation terminal, typing idly.

Jim threw himself down in Nyota's usual chair, making it spin a little.

The Vulcan glanced at him enquiringly.

He shrugged. "Yota and McCoy are using the personal quarters. Didn't want to intrude."

One upswept brow twitched sharply.

"Not like that! Geez, get your mind out of the gutter..." Still, he had to chuckle. He wondered if either the Vulcan or Scotty were willing to wager on how long it would be before it _was_ 'like that'. "What are you doing, anyway?"

"I was concerned we would pass too close to the Zenik system, so I was recalibrating our course."

Jim watched him work, long fingers flying confidently over the keyboard. He still wore the gloves he'd had back on Terra, though all the rest of his clothing, like Jim's, had been exchanged for the plain black uniforms they'd found aboard the freighter.

"Are they so you don't do the telepathy thing?" Jim asked, without much thought beyond curiosity.

Spock froze for a fleeting second, before resuming his typing with conscious effort. "Yes."

"The other you didn't have to wear them."

"No, he did not."

"How come?"

Voice clipped, Spock answered shortly, "I imagine because he had the benefits of Vulcan training."

Jim frowned. "What, you mean you weren't trained? Why?"

But he seemed to have hit a nerve. Dark eyes pinned him with a glare. "You are trying to cause me discomfort in return for your own during the card game. But I did not assign you the name Kodos, nor know of your particular history with him. Cease your attempts."

Bemused, Jim held up his hands. "Hey, I just asked a question about _gloves_. I didn't even know you had anything to feel 'discomfort' _about_ , so don't get pissy with me."

Spock didn't look convinced, continuing to watch him warily.

Jim just rolled his eyes, spinning his chair away in exasperation.

At length, Spock turned back to his computer and whatever calculations he'd been in the middle of. He was tense now, jabbing at buttons, his spine held as ramrod straight as Jim had ever seen it. The points of his ears had turned green with what might even have been embarrassment.

Taking reluctant pity, Jim gestured halfheartedly at the screen. "You gonna show me this new course you set us on, then?"

"If you are interested."

"Oh yeah. Can't get enough of those angular velocity vectors..."

 

* * *

 

 

Jim shoved Nyota's shoulder to wake her, while Spock stretched up to the bunk above and delivered a careful tap to McCoy's arm. They were switching shifts, Jim feeling dead on his feet. Sleep was always short and sweet with only the five of them trying to do the work of a twelve person crew.

She sat up groggily, her newly short hair tussled wildly about her head. It had been days since she’d changed it, and he still wasn’t quite used to the difference. Her hands pressed and combed at it, trying self-consciously for some kind of order.

"Rise and shine," Jim crowed obnoxiously, rapping his knuckles on the metal frame of their bunk.

"Yeah, yeah, we heard you." McCoy lowered himself from the upper level with precious little grace, absently checking his bandages were still secure and clean. He grabbed a discarded shirt from the floor and pulled it over his head, yawning.

"Try not to crash into a planet while we're gone," Jim told them, barely managing to restrain an additional comment about the doctor's new depth perception. He suspected it might still be too soon.

They stumbled out, looking no more rested than Jim felt.

Not willing to waste any time, he stripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed he'd claimed as his own the first night they'd spent here. Spock's was the bunk above his. The Vulcan reached up and grasped the rail, lifting himself smoothly and seemingly without much effort. Jim quirked an eyebrow, staring at the underside of the bed with half-lidded eyes as he listened to the other settle himself.

Despite the bone-deep weariness that swept over him, he couldn’t quite seem to make his thoughts fall quiet. His brain couldn’t stop running through the equations and algorithms necessary in flying a ship. His hands twitched with the need to touch controls. And as ever, he was all too aware of the vial of red matter hidden beneath him, which wasn’t conductive to relaxation even in the best of circumstances.

"What were they like?" he asked abruptly, keeping his voice to a whisper.

The room remained quiet, and Jim assumed Spock had already fallen into that creepy, stone-still trance he called sleep. He was just debating the wisdom of reaching up and jabbing the underside of the mattress when Spock's weary voice drifted down to him.

"Who are you referring to?"

Jim bit his lip, then ventured, "You know. The other versions of us."

Spock went silent again.

"I mean, you said you saw what it was like, right? That other universe?"

"I saw... glimpses," Spock admitted cautiously. "Why do you wish to know?"

Jim shrugged, fidgeting until the sheets were draped over his legs. "Not every day you find out there's another you out there somewhere," he muttered. In truth it was something that had been playing on his mind ever since he'd begun to accept the old Vulcan on Delta Vega might have been telling the truth. He couldn't quite pin down his own reaction to the thought that he wasn't unique.

"Having actually encountered my other self, I agree it is an unsettling experience."

Jim snorted softly. "So what were they like? The other me and you; the other Nyota and McCoy and Scotty?”

"They were... different."

Accustomed to Spock's typically precise use of words, it was strange to hear him hesitate. "Different how?" Jim prompted, frowning up at him.

"I did not see them in detail," Spock warned. "Only flashes. But I believe they were... happy. United in purpose. They wore Starfleet uniforms with great pride."

"We were Starfleet?" Jim marvelled, shaking his head. He felt sort of like he was listening to a story. "Were you a navigator there, too?"

"No. I was Chief Science Officer." He seemed to hesitate, then added, "And I was your second in command."

Jim blinked. "My... I was a _captain_?"

"You captained _The Enterprise_ ," Spock confirmed, sounding as though he was trying to describe something only half-remembered. "Starfleet's flagship. For five years, longer, we - they - followed you across the galaxy. You were thought of as a great hero."

Jim felt something tighten uncomfortably in his chest. "Oh," he said quietly. He gave a hollow laugh. "Bet you wish you had that Jim Kirk along for the ride instead of me, huh? Sounds like he'd have been a lot more useful."

Spock didn't say anything, perhaps realising his misstep. The room fell silent again as the Vulcan presumably resumed his attempt at sleep, and Jim privately tried not to resent a man he'd never be.

"You asked me why I could not control my telepathy," Spock said suddenly, "and yet my other self could."

Jim raised his eyes to the underside of the bed, surprised.

"The fact is that he was raised on Vulcan with all the accompanying opportunities, by a Vulcan father who gave him discipline and a human mother who showed him kindness. Such a union in our reality, of course, is considered highly illegal."

Jim held up a hand. "Wait, back up. You're half-human?" It hadn't even occurred to him that humans _could_ breed with xenos.

"I am. I'm told that my father was incarcerated in an Imperial penal colony for his transgression. I assume my mother would have been similarly punished, but she was killed shortly after my birth by an organisation of Terran purists." He recited the facts without inflection, without trace of emotion, as though they were simply something he had memorised.

Jim winced. "That's... pretty brutal."

"Yes. I always wondered why they would take such a risk, knowing the consequences." He fell silent a moment, then continued. "My original point was that my own upbringing was in a Terran orphanage. I received no instruction on telepathic abilities beyond those few holovids on the subject which I could discover. It was not a sufficient education."

Jim wasn't entirely sure why Spock was suddenly confessing such personal history. It felt almost like he was trying to repay the debt of inadvertently discovering Jim's secrets. He didn't say anything, unsure what the appropriate response might be.

The Vulcan let out a long breath in the darkness. "So it is not only you who falls short of that other reality. We are all lesser here."

And wasn't that the uplifting thought he needed right before sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

"We're maybe a couple of hours from the Klingon border."

It had taken them nearly two days longer than Spock's original estimation due to some unavoidable detours along the way, but at last they were approaching the outer edges of Omega Leonis. They were all gathered on the bridge, everyone tense and speaking in whispers, as though it was actually possible to hear Starfleet ships creeping up on them from out of the blackness of space. Still, Jim personally thought it was a relief to be here at last. One way or another, the stress and the restlessness were about to be over.

"Any sign?"

Spock checked his equipment yet again. "None that I can detect."

"They're near here somewhere," Scotty insisted. "Probably under cloaking devices. Any thoughts on a plan?"

They'd dropped out of warp to give themselves time to consider their options. Not that they had a whole lot of those, Jim thought resignedly.

"We should make a run for it," he said aloud. "What else are we going to do? Hover here waiting to be picked off?"

"We could always detour further out," Scotty began, but Jim was already shaking his head.

"We're pushing it on fuel supplies as it is, we can't afford any more detours. And anyway, they're probably expecting us to try something like that."

"So instead you just want to charge on in?"

"We get past them quick enough and it won't matter how many or how big their ships are. You said it yourself. We just need to make it to the finish line."

Scotty didn't look convinced.

"Program in the most direct route you can," he told Spock. "We can direct all extra power to the engines, try and just... crash through."

"Who died and made you captain of everything," Nyota complained, but it didn't escape Jim's notice that they were all actually doing what he'd said. He wasn't even sure _why_.

They made good time. The first hour passed without difficulty, though everyone present was tense to the point of breaking as they sailed ever closer to Omega Leonis. Scotty was visibly sweating, mopping at his forehead periodically with the wool hat he refused to relinquish. Nyota chewed her lip whenever she thought no one was looking, and Spock was nearly robotic in his movements.

“Relax,” Jim said quietly, when the brittle silence became too much. “Nearly there. We’ll get through.”

He had to wonder what Starfleet was waiting for, though. It almost would have been less painful if they’d been shot at sooner. At least there’d be no awful waiting game.

The minutes continued to tick by.

When another half hour passed without interception, Jim even let himself begin to wonder if Starfleet wouldn’t come for them after all. Maybe they were too unimportant to waste the resources on. Maybe Starfleet was too preoccupied by the spreading war. They’d been out of the loop as far as news was concerned for several days now; it was entirely possible something had happened in that time which demanded attention, and one little stolen ship leaving the Empire had fallen beneath notice.

He moved to stand behind Nyota’s chair, wanting to ask how likely she thought that might be.

That was when the first blast hit them. The ship was thrown out of warp and off course, Nyota just about managing to turn them into a swerve that saved them from collision with the Starfleet vessel which suddenly loomed ahead of them.

"Don't slow down!" Jim shouted over the shuddering of the ship.

She managed to turn them again sharply enough that they avoided the next volley of phaser fire, which came from a second ship suddenly on their rear.

"What's the damage?"

"Shields are up now, but that first shot hit our weak side, where the meteor scars are."

"How bad?"

"Not sure. But crossing your fingers and hoping everything holds together isn't exactly gonna hurt."

Jim swore.

They darted away from the two ships, Nyota employing all her skills to keep them out of the line of fire. These ships weren't as big as Pike's constitution-class, which meant not quite as powerful but unfortunately not nearly as slow. They turned and promptly gave chase as the freighter zipped past. Nyota wove an unsteady path, diving frantically between bursts of phaser fire. She hissed between gritted teeth as she worked.

"How far out are we?" Jim asked.

"Too far to survive pursuit at this speed," Spock answered succinctly.

They were hit a second time. Scotty stumbled at his station, and Jim had to grab the computer terminal to remain standing.

"Shields at eighty-four percent."

"Forget the shields, we need to get back to warp!"

"These shields are holding us together! Don't talk to me like I don't bloody well know what I'm doing!"

Red flashes of light lit up the viewscreen. Nyota couldn't dodge all of it this time, and the bridge shuddered and shook as they were hit yet again.

"The shields are going to be down soon anyway," he snapped. "We do it now and we have that much more power to get away."

Scotty brought up a clenched fist to his forehead, obviously thinking fast. "It takes nearly ten seconds between dropping shields and going to warp. We get hit again in that weak spot, it'll split us open. Not to mention what the trauma of actually _going_ to warp might do..."

"You told us this ship was space-worthy," Spock reminded him coldly.

"It was when we left!"

"Guys, I can do this." Nyota spared a fleeting glance over her shoulder, her eyes earnestly wide. "Take the shields down. I won't let us get hit."

"They'll come after us," Scotty warned. "Probably have a higher warp drive, too."

"We need minutes only," Spock reasoned. "Sensors are picking up ships which can only be Klingon just beyond the border. Should we get close enough, presumably Starfleet will abandon pursuit."

"Can't believe we're relying on _Klingon_ protection..." Jim muttered. Only a few weeks ago he'd been terrified of facing them on a battlefield, and now they were fleeing towards them in the hope of mercy. There was a cosmic sort of irony about the whole thing.

“Alright, _fine_!” the Scotsman snapped. He nodded at Nyota. “Get ready, then. I’ll count you in.”

She bared her teeth in something like a smile, and with a few manipulations of the controls, promptly threw the ship into a tightly contracted spiral. Jim’s stomach flipped as the viewscreen showed the galaxy spinning wildly around them, even though the artificial gravity didn’t let him feel it.

“Shields going down now.”

Red beams of phaser fire flew past them in rapid succession. Jim held onto the back of Nyota’s chair, his nails digging gouges in the leather as, despite himself, he braced for the impact that would blast them out of the sky. Thoughts of the red matter flashed briefly through his head, but he supposed that if it did blow up he’d likely never even realise. None of them would.

“Seven seconds.”

She worked quicker and with more expertise than he would have given her credit for, maintaining the corkscrew flight path while also sending them arcing upwards. One of the Starfleet ships broke off from its partner, angling round on their starboard side.

“Four seconds. Get ready, lass.”

“Your course is set.”

She nodded to show she’d heard them. The second ship was firing at their flank now, perhaps having spotted the same weakness Scotty had warned against. Nyota swore. At the last possible moment she left the spiral and threw them into a nosedive so severe that Jim once again felt the echo of vertigo. They careened under the phaser fire.

“Going to warp 3... _now_.”

It was tempting to breathe a sigh of relief, but this was the real start of the race. Jim sidestepped so he could peer over Spock’s shoulder instead. Seconds ticked by while the Starfleet ships powered up their own warp drives. He could see the two blue dots on Spock’s monitor falling behind, the freighter’s own symbol moving smoothly towards the marked destination. There was indeed a cluster of other dots just ahead of them. Jim wondered if the Klingons were watching their own navigation screens, amused by the antics taking place just outside their borders.

On the screen, the Starfleet ships suddenly leaped forward.

“They’re coming,” he warned.

“I see that,” Spock answered. “But there is little to be done beyond hope they do not reach us in time.”

It didn’t exactly sound like the ace-in-the-hole plan he’d been hoping for, but then wasn’t that just _fitting_ for the whole disorganised venture.

“Diverting all extra power to engines as we speak.”

As if to demonstrate, the lights on the bridge flickered and dimmed. Jim barely noticed.

“Come on, we’re _so close_.”

He leaned forward over Spock’s chair, all concentration narrowed to the display screen. Never had a few flashing lights held so much importance to him. Twenty seconds sped by and the Starfleet ships had halved the distance. Thirty and they were nearly upon them.

He closed his eyes as he waited for the crash that would knock them out of warp again, indulging the cold comfort that at least if they were going to die, the red matter would ensure everyone in the vicinity went with them. It would be one final, satisfying _fuck you_ to the universe that was doing its level best to screw with him lately.

Then he felt Spock straighten in the chair. On-screen, two of the blue dots had stopped moving. Wide-eyed, Jim stared at the monitor in near disbelief. The freighter symbol pulled further away, and then the pair of ships began actively moving backwards. His breath released in a rush.

“Holy shit, we did it.”

“Not yet we didn’t, laddie,” Scotty cautioned. “Gotta get past the Klingons, now.”

That sobered him. As Nyota dropped them out of warp, he moved quickly back to the communications terminal, even as it began to beep shrilly.

“Here we go,” Scotty said.

He hit the button, and the viewscreen was promptly filled with the scowling face of a Klingon captain. Jim swallowed. He’d never seen one in real life before, only mocked-up images published by Starfleet. He’d always thought they’d been made to look monsterish on purpose, like a scare tactic, but in all honesty the one in front of him was every bit as intimidating as the propaganda.

“There must be a very good reason for a Starfleet cargo ship to come tearing across our border. State your business here. And be quick. We will not play chase with you as the others did."

Jim glanced over at the Scotsman, figuring since it had been his idea in the first place then he could do the negotiating. Scotty cleared his throat nervously. "We, er, want to get to Sif Alpha."

"Is that so? And why should we permit that?"

"Rumour has it you're open to anyone not loyal to the Empire."

"Rumour is wrong," the Klingon said immediately.

Jim's stomach dropped in sudden fear. "We permit entry only to those who may be of use to us, and who can compensate us for our generous hospitality."

Scotty held up a finger. "Ah! We can do that. We come bearing weapons and tech stolen from Starfleet themselves, all yours for the taking."

"You were not subtle in your theft, if they chased you all the way to our borders."

"Aye, well the ship was a wee bit harder to hide."

The Klingon made a guttural sound which Jim eventually realised was laughter. It grated from his throat, about as threatening as if he'd snarled a curse. "You are daring little humans. I like that. And I am almost tempted to allow you passage simply for the show you put on for us, buzzing about Starfleet like plague-flies."

"That'd be nice," Scotty said hopefully.

" _Almost_. My men and I will board your ship to examine and acquire your tribute momentarily."

"We can send it on over," Scotty offered hastily. "Save you the trouble."

The Klingon sneered. "You think us naive, Terran? We must ensure you are not Imperial agents or infiltrators. I like your audacity, but it will not stop me from slitting your throats like dogs if you are lying."

They exchanged looks of trepidation, but there was nothing to be done. Scotty lowered the shields.

 

* * *

 

 

The Klingons cleaned them out.

Four of them beamed aboard, three heading immediately for the cargo while the other came onto the bridge and proceeded to interrogate them vigorously. He wanted to know every detail of why and how they had come to arrive at Omega Leonis. That proved a difficult conversation. No one dared lie outright, but they were all reluctant to bring up discussion of other universes and Romulan abductions. They settled for describing their unwilling conscriptions, their reluctance to join Starfleet and fight for the Empire, and the desperate escape they'd made from Delta Vega. Once again, the Klingon seemed thoroughly entertained by the account.

Meanwhile, the other three all but stripped the ship of parts. Jim felt growing concern as they proceeded to slap electronic markers not only on all the crates of weapons and goods they had brought with them, but also a number of fuel cells, and some of the not-quite-necessary computer terminals. He was just glad they'd had the forethought to stash the disruptor pistols they planned on keeping for themselves in the footwell beneath Spock's navigational terminal, safely out of sight. And as for the red matter, Jim could only pray it remained unnoticed in its hiding space beneath his mattress.

"You need to leave us enough ship that we can actually carry on flying," he protested, when one of the Klingons placed a marker on the comms unit.

The one who'd interrogated them gave a casual shove to his chest, and Jim landed hard in the chair that was fortuitously positioned behind him. The Klingon snarled dismissively. "You are only lucky we do not demand the female as part of your payment."

Nyota bared her teeth, half turning in her chair to let him see the wicked knife she kept strapped to her boot.

He waved her off, perhaps already having decided she was more trouble than her worth.

“So?” Scotty prompted nervously. “We’re all good, right? We can pass?”

The Klingon turned to regard him, stepping right up into his space. “I’ve denied entry to those far more generous than you, Terran.”

Jim slowly got to his feet again, preparing himself to fight if it came to it. He shot a glance at Spock, hoping the Vulcan would be quick enough in retrieving the stashed guns. It seemed a hopeless prospect, but he was damned if he was going down without at least _some_ kind of protest.

The Klingon looked back at him dismissively. Then he bared his sharpened teeth in a grin.

“You are fortunate you make me laugh. You may pass, though I take no responsibility for your safety in our sector.”

Of course not, Jim thought. Just strip them of fuel and supplies and send them on their way. Still, they’d had Klingons aboard and would apparently live to tell the tale. He supposed things could have gone worse.

“Good luck in Sif Alpha, Terrans. You’ll need it.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Like I said, I just wanted some time to get ahead on chapters and work out the plot of arc 2. Hopefully I can stick to the weekly updates again for quite a while! 
> 
> To keep up to speed on how things are going, you can follow me on tumblr under the user name verayne. 
> 
> I REALLY want to hear what you guys think of Alpha btw, as I'm super excited to world-build here. Let me know in the comments!

**Stardate 2255.** **248.**

**Sif System.**

**Sif Alpha.**

 

Sif was a k-class main-sequence star situated on the edges of the Qo'noS sector, its reddish, vaguely sinister light not ideal for life conditions. Originally it had been a dead system. But in 2116, when the Klingons had initially declared their opposition to the Terran Empire and the first spats between powers had broken out, Sif had become the first line of defence against Imperial invasion.

Space stations had been constructed and launched into the system, many of them little more than oversized, automated weapons turrets in orbit around empty planets. A number of smaller moons had been terraformed just enough so that pragmatic military colonies could be established there. Mostly they'd been designed as strongholds where warships waited in reserve, weapons were stockpiled, and Klingon soldiers gathered to repel the Empire. Sif Alpha had been among the first of such outposts constructed.

Likewise, it had been the first to fall during the vicious wars of 2122.

While Klingons had ultimately thrown off any attempts at Imperial rule, Sif Alpha and much of the system had been left in ruins. The site had never been rebuilt or repaired, the tides of battle having long swept on to another system, and so for over a decade the outpost had sat unoccupied and purposeless.

Then the first settlers had arrived, Orions fleeing the war in their own system and seeking refuge under the protection of the Klingon rebels. Finding it seemingly abandoned, they'd staked claim to Sif Alpha in 2135, though only managed to hold it for another eleven Standard months before a mercenary offshoot of the Klingon military had retaken it in a clash of violence. Ever since it had been nearly impossible to record into whose hands the outpost fell. The exchanges of rulership were always far too sudden, chaotic and bloody. With the Klingon government too distracted in scuffling with the Empire to intervene, Sif Alpha became a valuable and unprotected piece of real estate.

Then at some point during the 2170's, matters had finally stabilised. The Empire had ceased expanding, having conquered almost everyone and everything deemed to be of any value, so Qo'noS had at last turned its attention back to its errant colony. By then, the stream of Orion, Andorian, and other non-Terran refugees had become an ongoing trickle, and enterprising mercenary groups had discovered it was far more profitable to demand compensation in return for protection than it was to slaughter the newcomers outright. As a result, mercenary rulers had grown wealthy in credits, weaponry and technology, and the Sif Alpha outpost had expanded exponentially beyond its original borders.

Perhaps Qo'noS had been taken aback by the self-sufficient nature that the overrun outpost had acquired, but it had not acted to clear the site. Instead, negotiations had been opened, and it was agreed that the feral frontier society of Alpha would be left largely untouched - under the condition, of course, that a sizeable portion of profit and contraband filtered its way into government hands. That had remained the status quo ever since, everyone involved rather content with the arrangement - save, perhaps, the destitute and desperate who arrived daily, expecting relief from the tyranny of the Empire and discovering instead that Alpha was ultimately little different.

 

* * *

 

 

They’d had to sell the ship upon arrival, just to have credit enough to survive. Scotty had done well in getting them a decent price from the scam-artists looking to buy, but even so it hadn’t lasted long. In the two weeks they’d been here, they’d all had to scrape and scrimp just to get by. Only now were things looking up, a plan finally solidifying for how they were going to make their way here.

Jim pressed his way through the narrow streets, such as they were, with Spock following closely at his left shoulder. It was dark - but then, it had been dark ever since they’d gotten here. Jim had been bemused at first, but it turned out the phenomenon was caused by the rotation of the moon Alpha was built on. Caught in the gravity of a planet, it spun so slowly that ‘day’ and ‘night’ each lasted nearly a Standard month. The peculiarity had bred strange customs. With no natural rest period, people here worked and partied and generally lived their lives at all hours.

The Vulcan was bristling with unease in such a tight-packed crowd, flinching from so much unwanted contact, but there was really nothing to be done for it. Every area of Sif Alpha they'd yet to lay eyes on was overpopulated to the point of claustrophobia. They were in what passed for the local bazaar, though in reality it was little more than a haphazard sprawl of crates and tarps and dilapidated stalls, just barely illuminated by dimly glowing chem-lights. They moved slowly, eyes constantly scanning the jostling street. On their right, foodstuff was being hawked by a couple of loud-mouthed Tellarites. Vegetation of any kind, they'd quickly discovered, was a rare commodity due to the lack of crops that grew in the system. Nor were replicators common enough here to be relied upon. It had alarmed Spock at first, who was unable to eat meat like Jim and the others, but the vendors at least sold grains, dried fruits and canned goods at extortionate prices. An unreasonable portion of their few credits, much to Jim's exasperation, had so far gone towards keeping the Vulcan from starving.

Further on were wares of a more trivial nature. Data PADDs, handheld comm units and gaming devices were laid out on display atop a green cloth on the floor, the Cardassian merchant who owned them keeping watch with his hand on a gun. Next to him a blue-skinned woman waved about coloured bottles of liquid. Jim had no idea whether they were drinks, drugs, poisons or potions, but she was certainly drawing in a line of customers. Their voices rang out in discordant, broken bits of language. At another stall an Orion woman was selling what could only be sex toys of some description, while a second Orion slinked about nearby in an attempt to sell herself. Jim winked at her on the way past.

Spock's hand brushed his shoulder. "Over there."

Jim followed his gesture, eyes landing on a man browsing at an electronics stall. He was Bajoran, with a dark complexion and hair, and visible on the back of his neck was a prominent brand.

"Looks like our guy."

They changed course, following behind him at a distance as he meandered through the bazaar. He wasn't paying attention, clearly oblivious to their presence, and Jim had to wonder how he'd survived long, being so careless in a place like Alpha. He supposed wearing that brand extended a certain amount of protection, but the Bajoran was relying far too heavily on it if he didn't even bother glancing over his shoulder once in a while.

They trailed him towards the far edges of the bazaar, pausing only once to wait for him to buy some kind of wrapped snack. Then they continued, out beyond the glow and hubbub of the stalls and into the shadowed recesses of Cheapside. This was where the first non-militant settlers had set up houses, in a crazy, labyrinthine network of streets and alleyways.

They sped up, Jim pulling ahead. He kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his eyes on the ground, just another nobody trying to get home. He timed it well. As the Bajoran passed by the opening of a narrow, darkened alcove, Jim came up quickly behind him. In a smooth motion, he wrapped one arm tight around the Bajoran's neck and hauled him sideways into concealment.

The man started struggling immediately, reaching up to claw at Jim's arm. When he couldn't pull it free, he suddenly slammed himself backwards, and Jim groaned as his spine collided with the wall of the alcove. Then Spock was there, bodily lifting the Bajoran off his feet by the lapels of his jacket, allowing Jim to slip out from behind him.

"Who the hell are-?!"

Jim grabbed his disruptor pistol from where it was tucked into the back of his jeans, pressing the muzzle beneath the man's jaw and putting a finger to his own mouth in a hushing gesture. While intervention from passers-by was unlikely, there was no need to draw unnecessary attention.

"Who the hell are you two?" the Bajoran hissed, furious but obediently quiet. "Don't you have any idea who I _am_?"

"We know exactly who you are, Hasar," Jim admitted. "That's why we're here."

"We require a meeting with your master."

The Bajoran blinked in surprise, then plastered a sneer onto his face. "Oh good, more upstarts wanting to cling to Vek’s coattails. Get out of here. Maybe I'll feel generous enough not to tell him you _assaulted_ his right hand man!"

Jim laughed. " _Right hand man_? Is that honestly what you're calling yourself? That slave mark says different."

Spock’s eyes flashed their menacing, cat-like green as he tilted his head. "Correct me if I am mistaken, but I do not believe such a brand indicates Vek’s trust in you, merely his ownership. And Vek may rest assured we do not intend to destroy his property."

Jim smirked. "Yeah, just rough it up a bit."

Hasar flushed angrily, swearing in his native language. He made a renewed attempt to struggle free of Spock's hold on him, kicking hard at the Vulcan's shins. Jim jammed the gun harder into his throat, prompting him to be still. The Bajoran's eyes flicked desperately towards the street, where people were hurrying past determinedly not looking at them.

"Alright, alright!" he whispered at last, all in a rush. "What do you want?"

"We know Vek’s going to be in town tomorrow night. Where can we drop in on him?"

Hasar shook his head. "I... I don't know."

"You're lying."

"I'm not!"

Jim shrugged. "Hey, doesn't matter to me one way or another. Just thought we'd try the easy way first."

As he spoke, Spock released the Bajoran's collar and peeled off one of the gloves he habitually wore, fingers flexing as though unused to the freedom.

Hasar's eyes widened. "Oh no, come on! Look, I'm sorry, I'll tell you, I'll -"

"Too late," Jim chirped.

Spock placed his hand over the Bajoran's face, closed his eyes, and both of them twitched violently and went still. Curious, Jim peered between them. Hasar's eyes were open but sightless. He'd slumped back against the wall, all resistance gone out of him. After a few seconds, a little trickle of blood ran down from his nose. The Vulcan looked no more at ease, brows drawn down and mouth pinched tight in either concentration or pain.

It didn't take long, at least. After less than a minute Spock blinked himself back to awareness and stepped away. Hasar promptly slid down the wall and landed at their feet. Jim frowned down at him, letting his gun drop down to his side. The Bajoran was out cold.

"Did you get it?"

"Yes."

"Good. He doesn't exactly look in any shape to be giving up more info."

"Do we leave him here?"

Jim shrugged. "Guess so." It still felt strange to be unconcerned with being caught in committing a crime, but the laws out here really were non-existent. They stepped out of the alcove and started walking, Jim glancing back only once. Spock busied himself putting his glove back on, fussing with it until the fit was right.

“I have to admit, that’s one cool trick you can do.”

“Yes. An unpleasant one, however.”

“For you or him?”

He pressed two fingers carefully to his temple. “I told you, I’m unskilled in telepathy. It is typically a painful, clumsy experience, particularly when the target is unwilling. It leaves me with headaches, and I suspect Hasar is faring significantly worse.”

Jim clicked his tongue dismissively. “Should have answered the question then, shouldn’t he?”

“I would indeed imagine he regrets the decision.”

He glanced across at the Vulcan, noting the barely perceptible wry humour in his voice. “Headache or not, you enjoyed that,” he accused.

“’Enjoy’ is not an accurate description. But it does occur to me that if we are to succeed and progress in this new society we have entered, we must begin to craft a formidable reputation for ourselves. Therefore I... derived satisfaction from such an act.”

Jim snorted in agreement. “You’ve definitely gotten us off to a good start.” His gaze flickered again to the Vulcan’s gloved hands, thoughts suddenly straying to a place they so very often strayed. “Wait. If you don’t ever touch people, does that mean you’ve never...?”

“Does that mean I’ve never what?”

“Oh come on, don’t make me spell it out.” He half grinned, although the expression fell flat when Spock continued to stare at him without comprehension. “I mean. Well. You’ve never... touched someone. Sex. I mean sex.”

Spock’s eyebrows rose in belated understanding. He opened his mouth to respond, then stopped, eventually adopting a look of dignified distaste. “I do not believe that is any of your concern.”

The grin returned full force. “I’m right, aren’t I? You haven’t!”

The Vulcan’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Is there a particular reason for your curiosity?”

“Not really, I just... Hell, we’ve got to get you laid. You’re missing out.”

“' _We_ ’ do not need to make any such effort. Please change the subject.”

Jim held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright.” It occurred to him that he’d been so distracted by his realisation that he hadn’t even asked the results of Spock’s mind-reading. “So where’s Vek going to be tomorrow, anyway?”

If anything, Spock looked all the more pained.

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about Alpha was that, to succeed here, you had to have something to _sell_.

Whether that was merchandise or skill didn't much matter. Scotty was already doing well enough in repairing and modifying ships at the docks, and word was quickly spreading that McCoy was a doctor. Apparently that was a big deal in the unlawful backwaters of the Sif system, and within the first few days of their arrival he'd gathered a line of prospective clients wanting to know what he could do for their various injuries, infections and conditions. Unable to prescribe drugs and medicine as he once had, and without access to the modern technology he'd trained with, he'd complained that he might as well be an old-world saw-bones for all the barbaric techniques he was going to have to resort to. Still, it hadn't stopped him from snatching up the opportunity. Now, only two weeks later, he'd garnered enough business to set up a shabby little clinic with his own horrifying set of surgical tools and outdated equipment.

Unfortunately, neither Jim, Spock nor Nyota had any such useful skills to market. Hence their current predicament of trying to track down Vek. When there was nothing to sell but yourself and your services, there were worse choices than a successful mercenary leader as your buyer. Jim didn't particularly relish the thought of working for anyone, let alone the alien thug currently lording over most of the colony, but it was the best prospect they had.

They'd been trying to get a face-to-face with him for the last week, but he'd been locked up in the fortress that was the original Sif Alpha stronghold. Only in the last few days had they caught wind of the rumour that he and his men would be gracing Alpha's lower quarters with their presence. Now that they knew exactly where he was going to be, they planned to make the most of the opportunity.

Out beyond the messy sprawl of Cheapside was what used to be a storage field. Great metal shipping containers were stacked in layers of three or four, tightly packed in rows that stretched for nearly half a mile. They’d originally contained all the resources of the Klingon military who had first established Sif Alpha, and had been left empty and rusting for the best part of a century.

These days, as Alpha’s populace spilled ever outwards, they had become makeshift housing units.

That was where Jim and Spock made their way after the meeting with Hasar. Jim looked up at the structures as they passed. There were lights strung up between them on wires, bare bulbs shining in the darkness. Smoke and steam drifted from hand-made vents in the containers, as occupants set about cooking evening meals by any creative means possible, and sheets of fabric fluttered over the windows and doors which had been cut into the metal. Ladders, wire bridges and rickety wooden structures connected each crate to its neighbours, reminding Jim of history book photographs of old urban slums back on Terra.

Most of the credit from selling the ship had been spent on purchasing one of the units, though it wasn’t like they had much to show for it. The crate had been bare when they’d gotten it, and far too cramped for the five of them to share indefinitely.

They reached the ladder which led to their unit and headed up.

“Did you find him?” Nyota asked almost as soon as Jim crawled inside. She was sat cross-legged on the floor, heating up a pot of stew over a Bunsen burner.

“Yup.”

“Oh thank god. If I have to spend one more day elbows-deep in blood and pus and shit, I’m going to scream.”

He wrinkled his nose in disgust, dubiously eyeing the food she was handling. For lack of anything else to occupy her time, she’d been helping McCoy in his clinic, though apparently not enjoying it.

The doctor himself was perched on the edge of one of the bunk beds, busy washing his hands in a bucket of water. He scoffed loudly. “And what exactly do you think you’re getting yourself involved in by signing up with the likes of Vek? More blood and pus and shit, mark my words.”

She rolled her eyes. “Long as I don’t have to scrub it out from under my nails every night...”

“Wouldn’t want to ruin that precious manicure.” But he was smiling, amused by the banter.

Jim mimed gagging at Spock, who frowned at him in mild concern.

“I got you some of that green soup you liked,” Nyota said, nodding at the Vulcan. “I’ll warm it up after I’ve done this.”

He blinked in apparent surprise. “I... Thank you.”

McCoy huffed irritably. “And it didn’t come cheap, by the way. This latest scheme better go off without a hitch because you’re not being my kept Vulcan for much longer.”

Spock looked annoyed, but Nyota interrupted before he could comment. “So how did it go, anyway? Where are we meeting him?”

Jim started to smile. “You’ll like it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Wanna go dancing?”

 

* * *

 

 

The nightclub, named Avatar, was in a richer area of Alpha than they typically frequented, and the entrance fee alone was enough to almost empty their credit accounts. It occurred to Jim as they passed by the Klingon bouncer that they’d probably only be able to afford the one shot at this. They’d arrived early on purpose, and were prepared to stay until closing if it meant managing to pin down Vek long enough to make their proposal.

Nyota had pulled out all the stops. She’d slicked back her short hair, applied her make-up, and donned a black dress short enough to be indecent. She looked stunning, but he had to wonder where she’d hidden her knives in that outfit. Since the Romulans, she didn’t go without them. He himself had his gun tucked in the small of his back, and he knew Spock was carrying too. You didn’t go to meet mercenaries without some means of protection.

Nyota took his arm, and the three of them headed inside.

Immediately, Jim could feel the heavy beat of the music vibrating in his chest, a primal sound that set his blood singing. He felt his senses sharpen, becoming predatory. Green strobe lights flashed across his vision, illuminating fleeting faces in the darkness. He scanned across them, taking note of the women and the men; the alien and the human; the pretty and the strange; the fuckable. The smells of sweat and perfume and alcohol filled his nose, intoxicating and oh so familiar.

He slid a glance across at Nyota, knowing she’d feel it too. This was their element, their home ground. They’d always worked well in places like this. Sure enough, she returned a heavy-lidded smile full of confidence.

Spock, on the other hand, stood rigid.

Jim rolled his eyes. He reached out and took hold of the Vulcan’s elbow, pulling him forward. “You need to loosen up, you look way too out of place.” He located the bar, and towed Spock along behind him. They grabbed three vacant stools, Nyota tapping the surface of the bar and ordering drinks.

“You used to work in a place like this,” Jim pointed out, when the Vulcan looked no more at ease. “How are you still this uncomfortable?”

“The Shipyard Bar was never this crowded. Or loud. And I was not forced to... ‘mingle’.”

Nyota smiled at his distaste. “You might as well try to enjoy it until Vek gets here. Have a drink. Better yet, come dance with me?”

At Spock’s horrified expression, she laughed openly.

The drinks were slid in front of them, little glasses of pink liquor that Jim frowned at sceptically. Nevertheless, he gave a shrug and picked it up along with Nyota, and they clinked glasses before drinking. He winced at the taste.

Her hips swayed to the music, and it was clear that she didn’t want to sit at the bar and wait with them. Her eyes tracked across the dancefloor, pausing on a couple of xeno girls who waved at her playfully. She smiled in response.

“Good thing McCoy isn’t here with us,” Jim commented. “Wouldn’t want to cause any jealousy.”

“I have no idea _what_ you’re talking about,” she said lightly, and with far too much innocence. “I’m going to go look around. I’ll be back before anything interesting happens.”

They watched her disappear into the crowd. Jim turned and ordered another round of drinks. When he noticed Spock still hadn’t touched the first one he’d been given, he took the extra for himself and shot it back, relishing the burn as it slid down his throat. He set the glass down and gestured expectantly at Spock.

The Vulcan eyed his own drink, gently nudging it with one fingertip. He seemed to deliberate for a moment, then picked it up. He would have followed suit and drank, Jim was sure, except that an Orion chose that moment to slip herself between them and lounge against the bar. She flicked her hair and a wave of pheromones crashed over Jim’s senses.

“Well you two are a pair of pretty faces I’ve never seen in here before.” She flashed a wide grin between them, her spine arching invitingly.

It wasn’t exactly part of the plan for the night to get distracted, but she was certainly hard to ignore. He started to summon his best flirtatious expression, only to blink in surprise when he realised her attention had settled firmly on Spock.

“And a Vulcan, too,” she observed. “Don’t get many of your kind in here. What’s your name, baby?” Her hand reached up to brush his jaw.

Spock jerked his head back so that her touch fell short. He looked both alarmed and bemused - although, if the white-knuckled grip he now had on the glass was anything to judge by, her cloud of pheromones weren’t lost on him either.

Annoyed for no reason he could put his finger on, Jim tapped her shoulder. When she turned to him, he jabbed his thumb back towards the dancefloor. “Go find another customer, sweetheart. He’s not buying.”

She arched an eyebrow, still smiling. “That’s just fine, since I wasn’t charging. A girl has needs outside of work, you know.”

He scowled, unsure how to argue against that.

She hitched a bare shoulder in a shrug. “Alright, I get it, you’re the possessive type. That’s okay. I’d be just as happy watching.”

Jim opened his mouth, but whatever protest he might have voiced was utterly derailed by the unexpected mental image. He blinked stupidly, half shaking his head.

Spock seemed to lose patience with the exchange. He leaned forward slightly on the stool, recapturing her attention. “We are currently here for the purpose of a business transaction. We do not have the time or freedom to pursue social interactions.”

She deflated slightly, but tilted her head in resignation. “See, that’s all you had to say. You should tell your boyfriend to lighten up some time.” And with that she sauntered away, hips swaying.

Jim gaped after her, vaguely scandalised. “Can you believe that?” he demanded. He couldn’t decide if he was more irritated by her initial dismissal of him, or that parting shot she’d taken.

Spock was watching him, brows drawn together in a discontent expression.

“What?”

“You are offended by her assumption that we are sexually involved.”

Jim’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open, though nothing particularly coherent emerged. “I... Not _offended_... You...”

“I am well aware that you have a tendency to think less of xeno individuals, but -”

“Not all of them. And how is that even relevant?”

“I can only infer that my undesirable biology is the reason -”

“Oh my _god_ , I’m not offended, okay?!” He was, however, utterly mortified. He couldn’t quite believe they were even having this conversation, but Spock looked earnestly affronted. “Look, forget about it. Let’s maybe concentrate on the merc leader we’re trying to impress tonight?”

Spock turned away, face masked and blank once again. “Very well.” He set his drink back on the bar, untouched.

They sat in awkward silence.

Embarrassment at the misunderstanding simmered between them, heating the back of Jim’s neck. He had to wonder why she’d even jumped to that conclusion in the first place. And on top of that, despite knowing it wasn’t the most gracious thought he’d ever had, he was still a little offended that the Orion had been interested in Spock rather than him. Personally, Jim didn’t see the appeal.

Alright, so maybe he could admit that Spock hadn’t been hit with the ugly stick or anything, but he still looked _strange_. With his stupid sticky-up eyebrows, green-tinged skin, and pointy ears with the weird little curlicue ridges... Well. Maybe Orion women were into that kind of thing. Who knew.

After about ten minutes, Nyota drifted back towards them.

“Everything okay?” she asked, apparently noticing something of the tension that had appeared in her absence.

Jim shot back the last of the drinks. “Oh yeah, just fine. Be better if Spock would stop trying to pick up women while we worked, though.”

At Nyota’s astonished expression and the Vulcan’s injured stare, he tipped back his head and laughed. It was entirely possible he’d had one drink too many, but he wasn’t massively worried. Yota had once reluctantly admitted that he did some of his best con-work when just slightly tipsy. It made him charming, and more able to improvise.

“I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone,” she said with a sigh. “Stop tormenting him.”

A witty retort fell silent in his mouth as the crowd suddenly seemed to ripple, attention shifting and focusing. Jim felt it like a prickle on the back of his neck. He looked around, following the direction of most gazes up to a raised seating area. It had been empty and off-limits before, but now people moved about up there. Jim squinted against the poor lighting. Most of them looked like armed muscle, setting themselves up to block the stairways that led to the platform. The rest were women of various races, all beautiful and scantily clad, except for a lone male Ferengi who took his seat in pride of place.

Vek had finally arrived, then.

Jim shot a glance at Spock and Nyota, and found them already watching with narrow eyes.

"It may be more difficult to achieve a meeting than we anticipated," Spock said in his serious way, looking pointedly at the bodyguards on the stairs. "I suspect they do not intend to let us pass easily."

"No kidding," Jim muttered. He rolled his shoulders, summoning his determination. "When all else fails, fake it until you make it."

"Oh god..." Nyota whispered.

He hopped off the barstool and strode ahead of them, pushing past dancers until he reached the foot of the stairs, and skipped quickly up the first few steps. When the Cardassian bodyguard halfway up failed to move and Jim nearly collided with his chest, he raised his head as though in earnest surprise.

"We've got an appointment with Vek," he said, with just the right touch of impatience and nerves. "It'd help if you moved."

He was expecting at least token argument, and had mostly intended to cause enough fuss and distraction that they could dart past in a moment of chaos - so it was more than a little disconcerting to have the Cardassian smirk at him and nod. "Ah, so you're the ones. Boss has been expecting you."

Before Jim could react, the other man grabbed hold of his arm and propelled him the rest of the way up the stairs, Nyota and Spock shoved after him. A little stunned, he found himself staring confusedly at Vek's inner circle of bodyguards and women.

The men were either Cardassian or Bajoran, all of them grim-faced and watchful. They were also armed to the teeth, Jim noted. The women were more diverse in race. They slinked about in their minimalist outfits, flashing multi-hued flesh as they danced to the tech-tuned music. Some of them cast curious looks in Jim's direction, but it was clear they all revolved tightly around the Ferengi mercenary seated comfortably in the middle of the platform. Jim felt a moment's fleeting pity for them. Vek certainly wasn't a looker, by any stretch of the imagination.

He was older than Jim had been expecting, the large protruding lobes on the side of his head drooping to his shoulders and his bulbous forehead speckled with liver-spots. His clothes were all rich, flamboyant materials and the fingers that drummed the arm of his chair were covered in heavily jewelled rings. He was engrossed in watching a couple of blue-skinned girls dancing for him, and hadn't yet deigned to notice their sudden arrival.

The awkward wait might have gone on, but a familiar looking Bajoran standing behind Vek's left shoulder suddenly pointed at them and started crowing loudly, "Sir, that's them! They're the two who... who..."

"Got the better of you?" Vek finished for him irritably, looking reluctantly away from the girls. "I wouldn't be so eager to remind me of that incident, Hasar."

Hasar slumped in embarrassment, though he continued to glare at Jim and the others with barely concealed hatred. His eyes were red with burst blood vessels, Jim noticed, and he wondered if that had also happened under the pressure of Spock's forced mind-reading.

"I was wondering when the two of you would show your faces," Vek commented wryly, "having gone to such lengths to find out my evening plans."

They really had been expected, then. Still, he didn't seem as pissed off about the whole thing as Jim might have imagined, so he decided to roll with it. He walked closer. "Hope we didn't keep you waiting."

The Ferengi flashed sharpened yellow teeth in amusement. “I admit, I’ve been curious to meet the new blood that crashes into my town and assaults my people, throwing my name around like they have a right to it.”

“We like to make an impression,” Jim quipped.

“So tell me, why are you here? What do you want so badly that you engineered this little meeting?”

“We want to work for you.”

Vek paused, then chuckled nastily. “Is that a fact? And what do I want with the likes of you? I have men enough to spare already. But go ahead, please - impress me.”

“I like to think we come with some recommendations,” Jim drawled. This was the sales pitch they’d all agreed had the most chance of succeeding, but now in the moment he suddenly wasn’t so sure. Even so, he plastered a self-sure expression on his face and added, “We had to leave the Empire because Starfleet found out we were involved in the destruction of Vulcan.”

Vek scoffed, but when the three of them just continued to stare at him blandly he sobered. He shot a pointed look at Spock, who merely raised an eyebrow.

“The Va’Pak. I see. I realise that news sometimes reaches us slowly in this dusty corner of the galaxy, but I was under the impression that Romulans were responsible for that attack.”

“We were on their ships,” Jim explained calmly. “ _The Nerada_. You’ve heard of it?”

“And why would you be aboard _The Nerada_?”

“Starfleet conscripted us,” he admitted, showing his forearm, “so we decided it was time to say goodbye to the Empire, come out here and join the rebellion. The incident with Vulcan was a detour along the way.”

Vek drummed his fingers in consideration, then shrugged. “So?”

Jim blinked, taken aback by the question.

The Ferengi shrugged. “Fine, you’re conscript runaways. So is every Rovak, Ruk and Sar’ry camped out here on Alpha. I’m not impressed yet, Terran.”

Spock was the one to respond. “Our point is that we are already active players in this war - a war that will no doubt be massively profitable to you given your trade with the Klingons in weaponry and manpower. Not only are we able and willing to fight for you, but by employing us you would be able to utilise what reputation we have already made for ourselves, therefore enhancing your own. As yours is a position largely enforced by reputation, we are valuable assets.”

Jim nodded, thankful for Spock’s particular way with words. That actually made them sound damn near impressive.

Vek looked like he reluctantly agreed, or was at least interested enough to indulge them a while longer. He gestured to two girls, who quickly vacated the seats opposite him. “Fine. Sit down. Have your woman fetch some drinks while we talk business."

At his side, Jim felt Nyota bristle with offence. He winced inwardly. "Think we have a misunderstanding," he admitted. "Yota's with us. She's a fighter."

Vek looked surprised. "Then we have a problem, Terran. I don't work with females." He gestured at the dancers around them. "Pretty to look at, yes, but weak and wilful. Not good for business."

Spock very subtly stepped in front of Nyota, perhaps to conceal her visible outrage. It didn't work. She all but shoved past him, glaring intently at the Ferengi.

"I think you should know I castrated the last man who thought I was weak. With his own knife."

The dancers gasped and tittered.

Vek's face hardened. He looked back towards Jim. "You let her speak to her betters like this?"

" _Excuse_ me?!" Nyota demanded. "You know, I am so damn sick of the men in this backwater, shitty little town and their -"

Spock touched her wrist with the back of his hand, a gesture which for him was as good as throwing his arm out in front of her.

Vek sneered. "Bah. Back home, Ferengi women are civilized. They don't disobey, they don't argue, and they don't have a thought in their head unless otherwise instructed. I didn't travel halfway across the galaxy to be chattered at by alien wenches." He flicked his hand dismissively.

His bodyguards stepped up behind them, obviously preparing to remove them from the platform. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Jim stepped forward. "Wait -"

They grabbed Spock and Nyota by the arms, pulling them backwards toward the stairs. Behind Vek, Hasar smirked with intense satisfaction. A hand clamped down on Jim's shoulder. There was no more time for charm, he realised. He hadn't wanted it to come to this last resort, but either he did something drastic or they were going to be unceremoniously kicked out on their asses, their one chance squandered.

He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulling out the item he'd stashed there before they'd ventured out this evening.

Vek's eyes widened in alarm.

The Cardassian bodyguard hauled Jim backwards and he stumbled slightly, almost tripping.

" _Stop_!"

Everyone froze, dancers and guards alike going utterly still at the order. The Ferengi was on his feet, hand held out in a calming gesture. His eyes were fixed steadily on the vial of red matter Jim suddenly brandished in front of him.

"You know what this is?" he asked, jaw clenching nervously.

Vek snarled. "Oh I know my weapons, boy. I know what that is. How the hell did it get into your hands?"

Nyota and Spock were watching the exchange with confusion. Neither of them had seen red matter before now, and he hadn't exactly gotten around to telling them he had it. He cast what he hoped was an apologetic glance in their direction, then turned back to Vek.

"I saw something valuable and I took it," he answered, all blasé attitude. It was at least an estimation of the truth. He neglected to mention the blinding panic that had accompanied his impulsive theft.

"And that's supposed to change my mind, is it?"

Jim smirked and summoned all his confidence. "We're people you _want_ working for you, Vek. All three of us. I think we should sit down and talk some more."

The Ferengi scowled. Then he nodded.


	11. Chapter 11

**Stardate 2255.249.**

**Sif System.**

**Sif Alpha.**

 

Spock couldn’t stop his gaze returning to the vial that had been placed on the table between them all. It looked harmless, innocuous, but he had not been long in recognising its true nature. This was the substance that had destroyed Vulcan. It was fascinating, that the small drop of liquid before him contained enough power to consume a planet. How Jim Kirk had come to possess a sample, or why he’d thought it wise to _keep_ , was beyond him.

Still, he supposed its presence had secured them the meeting, so it was difficult to be entirely displeased by the revelation. Nyota, however, did not appear to share his outlook. She sat stiffly to his left, radiating brittle anger - no doubt in reaction to both Vek’s treatment of her and the knowledge that Jim had put them all in more danger than anyone had realised.

One of the dancers served them tall, thin tubes of blue alcohol. Spock noticed that while Jim immediately picked his up, he made no move to consume it. He was engrossed in conversation with the Ferengi mercenary.

"It occurs to me that if you stole this from the good Captain Nero, you weren't in fact the close allies of the Romulans you would have had me believe. Not trying to lie to me already, are you?"

Spock tensed, but Jim showed no reaction to the dangerous question beyond a slight smile of concession. "'Lie' is a strong word. I never said we were allies, only that we were aboard their ship and became involved in the war. All of that's true."

Vek's lip curled. "I know your type, Terran. Sneaky, sly rat who thinks he can mince words with me. I've cut out tongues for less."

Spock thought he saw Jim's expression flicker briefly, but ultimately he maintained a skilful bluff. His stare never wavered.

At length, the Ferengi relented, leaning back in his chair and sipping from his tube of blue alcohol. "You needn't have bothered. Next time, start with the stronger opening. We could have saved ourselves some time."

Jim nodded. "I'll keep that in mind. How about to make amends, you tell us what we can do for you and we do it. Prove we're worth keeping around."

Vek seemed to consider, then gave a nasty smirk. “You think yourself a thief, Terran? Fine. I have a task for you. There’s a Rigelian who thinks himself my competition. He’s been receiving shipments of rhuludian from the Andorians.”

“Rhuludian? I thought you specialised in weapons, not drugs.”

The Ferengi grinned. “I specialise in anything that brings me credit. And I don’t appreciate having my profits undercut by some upstart.”

“So what do you want us to do about it?”

“I want his supply. But upstart though he is, he has firepower and I don’t see the need to risk the wellbeing of my men on such a trivial matter. You, however...”

“We are expendable,” Spock surmised.

“You can take red matter off a Romulan ship,” Vek reasoned. “What’s a little blue crystal?”

Jim sat forward intently. “What do we get out of it?”

“Don’t get greedy, Terran. Do this well and I’ll consider you on the payroll. We’ll go from there.”

Blue eyes flicked towards first Nyota and then Spock, assessing their agreement. Spock nodded incrementally. This was exactly the type of work they intended to sign on for, after all. Why hesitate now?

“Fine,” Jim agreed. “Give us the details and we’ll do it.” He reached for the red matter.

Vek’s hand shot out as well, and suddenly both of them were gripping the vial between them. Everyone in the vicinity tensed up yet again.

The Ferengi bared his sharpened teeth. “I was under the impression that this was an offer of good faith. Why else bring it to me?”

Jim’s smile was tight. “It is. And it’ll be at your disposal if and when you need it. _After_ we’re on the payroll.”

Neither of them let go, and Spock swiftly tried to decide the best course of action. His instinct was to defend their claim to the red matter, if only to keep it from the likes of Vek. But if the Ferengi pressed the issue, with his dozen armed men looking on, there was every chance they wouldn’t be leaving here alive. He took quick mental account of where everyone was standing.

Then Vek chuckled. He released the vial, slumping back in his chair. “Best we not fight over something so... volatile, don’t you think?”

Warily, Jim slowly slid the red matter back towards himself, tucking it away into his jacket pocket. He looked bemused that Vek had let him win so easily.

But Spock thought he understood. The Ferengi didn’t need to grapple like a child over the prize - particularly when that prize was liable to kill them all if handled too roughly. No, Vek could simply take what he wanted when he wanted it, with violent persuasion if necessary. This was the man who ruled Alpha; simply walking out of his nightclub with possessions intact was no guarantee of protection. Spock hoped Jim realised that.

 

* * *

 

 

They left Avatar in uncommunicative silence, stepping out past the line of people still waiting to enter the nightclub. They walked down a street full of other, smaller bars and entertainment establishments which flashed their open signs in neon strip lights. A nearby brothel displayed men, women, and genderless xenos beckoning from its windows. Next to that, a felicium parlour emitted sweetly scented smoke into the night air.

The overhead chem-lamps grew dimmer and fewer as they passed back into Cheapside. The streets underfoot became dirt paths between the ramshackle houses, and the deep shadow of the water tower fell over them.

Nyota suddenly whirled and shoved Jim's shoulder. He stumbled sideways into Spock, who caught and braced him in surprise.

"You stupid klepto bastard!"

He held out his arms incredulously. "Hey! Pushing the man with the red matter isn't smart!"

She snarled in fury. "Let it blow up. It'd serve you right. Why wouldn't you tell us you stole a goddamn super-powered _bomb_?! How did you even _get_ it?"

Spock had to support her questions. He regarded the other Terran expectantly.

Jim rubbed the back of his neck under their joint scrutiny. "I just... I had an opportunity, okay? So I took it. As for telling you... It never came up?"

"The bomb you _stole_ and carried halfway across the _galaxy_ never came up. Really. That's really what you're going with.”

"I'm sorry! It was -"

"Don't bother." With frigid anger, she turned on her heel and resumed the walk home.

"Yota, come on!" he called after her, somewhat plaintively. When she didn't respond, he looked at Spock. " _You_ get it, right?"

"I understand the intrinsic value of red matter which tempted you to take it, yes. However, I believe Nyota's - and indeed my own - objections lie in the fact that you have kept us on the metaphorical edge of oblivion since we landed on Delta Vega. Even now you place us and all of Sif Alpha in danger of destruction."

But Jim's repentance seemed to be waning in the face of his growing annoyance. "I got us in the door, didn't I? If it hadn't been for that red matter, we'd have been out on our asses and you know it."

"Nevertheless -"

"Look, I _know_ it's dangerous, but this is our bargaining chip."

"And how do you plan to bargain with something you no longer retain? Because Vek will try to take it from you as soon as is convenient. He may even renege on your agreement and simply have us all killed. Have you considered such an outcome?"

"Can't take it if he doesn't know where it is," Jim hissed suddenly, stepping close enough that his voice could be heard. "And he can't kill us, either, or he won't get it."

Spock's eyes narrowed. This was a dangerous gamble, with only a negligible chance of success.

"Trust me," Jim urged, then turned and followed Nyota.

 

* * *

 

 

McCoy's clinic was on the edge of Cheapside. The doctor was using a sharp, curved needle to stitch closed the gash on a Tellarite's shoulder blade when they walked in. He glanced up at them, adjusting the placement of his new eyepatch. The skin around his healing injury was shiny with burn scars, but the eye, as Spock had anticipated, was blind. The cornea had faded to a milky white that he didn't like being seen.

"Well, look at the stop-outs," he greeted them. "I take it everything went well, since you're all in one piece."

No one answered.

He sighed, then busied himself tying off the stitches. An adhesive bandage went over them, and the doctor instructed his patient, "Keep it clean with strong alcohol. Nothing sugary, mind. Go on, you're done."

The Tellarite handed over a credit chip, put on his shirt, and shuffled out.

McCoy stripped off the medical gloves he'd been wearing, tossing them into a pile of dirtied bandages on the floor in the corner of the room. Then he turned to pin them with a glare. "What happened?"

"We're being tested," Jim admitted. "Do a job for him and we're in."

"But?" McCoy prompted. "Y'all aren't looking like this was a night well spent."

Nyota shot a dark look at Jim, but before she could say anything, he murmured low and urgent, "If you're going to tell him, do it quietly. Don't raise your voice and don't make a scene."

They all stared at him in confusion.

After a few moments of silence, Jim rolled his eyes and went to sit on the edge of the doctor's examination table, shrugging out of his jacket. "Look like you're giving me a check-up or something."

Utterly perplexed, McCoy moved to stand in front of him, placing his fingers beneath the younger man's jaw. "Alright. Now what?"

Suspicion crept upon Spock, then. Without turning his head, he flicked his gaze to the open window of the clinic. It was relatively quiet, but on the other side of the narrow street he could see two Cardassians seemingly engaged in conversation. They were Vek's men. He wondered if Jim had known all along they were being followed out of Avatar, or merely suspected.

A ripple of realisation seemed to run around the room. Nyota stiffened, struggling not to glance back over her shoulder. McCoy kept his eye fixed firmly on Jim - who, in a quiet, level voice, began to explain exactly what had happened.

When he got to the part concerning red matter, the doctor couldn't quite control his thunderous expression. "You had that shit with us when we were being _shot at_ in that _tin can spaceship_?!"

"Indoor voice, Bones."

The doctor pressed his thumb up into the soft underside of Jim's jaw in a spiteful jab. "You are one dumb hick, kid."

"Ow! Stop, _listen_! I need you to do something."

"Oh no. No, I told you I'm not getting involved -"

"You may not have a choice, doctor," Spock advised quietly. "It is now imperative we keep the substance out of mercenary possession, for all our sakes."

McCoy visibly struggled to control his reaction.

Jim took a breath. "I'm going to put my jacket back on, and as I do I'm going to give you the red matter. Keep it out of sight of the window behind me. Keep it out of sight altogether."

"And what am I supposed to do with the goddamn thing?"

"When we leave they're going to follow us. You take it and you hide it."

"Where?!"

"I don't know!"

"Nor," Spock added, "would it be wise for you to tell us."

Jim nodded. "Yeah. Keep it to yourself. And when you've done it, stay away for a few hours. Hopefully they'll have seen where we live and gone to report back to Vek by then."

"Oh well that's just beautiful..."

"Okay, ready?"

McCoy dropped his hands, and Jim made a show of struggling back into his jacket. In a smooth motion, as he finished pulling on one sleeve, he took out the vial and slid it into McCoy's hand. The doctor turned to put away his tray of instruments, and as he walked past he dropped the red matter into the pile of bandages on the floor.

Spock was impressed.

They left without further exchange, being careful not to look too closely at the pair of conversing Cardassians who lingered on the street outside. Best that Vek and his men continue to think them naive, unobservant players in the game.

Sure enough, Spock noted that their observers promptly resumed following their trail, unwittingly leaving the red matter safely behind.

 

* * *

 

 

Scotty was no more happy than McCoy when they explained the events of the previous night.

"You mad bastard," he added to the list of accusations levelled Jim's way.

They stood around him with folded arms and united, unyielding frowns. Perched on the edge of the bed rubbing his forehead, Jim felt penned in. "Will you all stop? We're in control of things right now. Everything's fine."

"Everything is _not_ fine," McCoy snarled in response. He'd only crept back an hour ago, and the stress showed in the depth of his scowl. Apparently a third Cardassian had entered his clinic after their departure and asked if the doctor knew them well. He’d been forced to lie through his teeth, conscious all the while of the red matter still in his possession. That he’d been believed was testimony only to McCoy’s dubitable relationship with the truth. "You were supposed to make allies of these mercenaries, not provoke them into stalking and killing us. How does anyone fuck up _so damn badly_?"

"They won't touch us until they have the red matter, and if you did your part well enough that won't happen."

"Did my -!"

Jim stood up and pushed his way out of the circle, pacing the short length of their storage container. "Stop. Forget about this for the moment. We need to be thinking about how we're going to pull off this blue crystal job."

To his surprise, it was Nyota who came to his rescue. "He's right," she admitted reluctantly. "And anyway, if we make ourselves useful enough, Vek might just decide the red matter can wait where it is for now. He thinks he knows where it is, right? He's not worried yet."

No one looked happy with the tenuous conclusion.

"We're agreed, then," Jim insisted, forcing the conversation on to the most pressing issue. "We get this job done and _then_ we worry. So. Ideas?"

McCoy turned away in annoyance, pointedly removing himself from the whole affair.

"What's your guy like?" Scotty asked. "The one you're stealing from?"

"A merchant," Spock answered. "New to the drugs trade. He has no men loyal to him, but credit enough to purchase adequate protection. Therefore simple intimidation is unlikely to succeed. Similarly, a direct assault is both hazardous and foolish."

The Scotsman scratched the back of his head in thought. "Still, he's gotta go pick the stuff up at some point, right? Take it while it's on the move. That's your weak point."

"I disagree," Spock argued calmly. "This man will undoubtedly travel to such a meeting in a vehicle, a resource which we cannot currently match. The simple task of following him to said meeting is beyond us, and that is discounting the hired bodyguards who will no doubt be accompanying him."

Scotty opened his mouth to protest, then closed it unhappily when he couldn't find fault with the logic.

All the while, Jim's brain sparked away with ideas. He looked across at Nyota and saw the same familiar inspiration on her face. This didn't need to be a shoot-out. If nothing else, Vek could have organised that for himself. No, this needed finesse. This needed to be a con.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a warehouse in the industrial quarters of Alpha where Vek’s up and coming Rigelian rival ran his business. For the most part, the warehouse stored food products; vacuum-packed dried fruit and vegetables, canned soups, cured and pickled meats, grain. Perhaps anywhere else in the galaxy it was all considered common fare, but here on Alpha it was a stash of rare delicacies. With contacts in most of the nearby systems, Selak had already established himself as a thriving food merchant.

It was only recently he’d made the decision to expand into the business of drug importation.

Several weeks ago he’d made a deal with a group of Andorians who travelled to and from Alpha, trafficking news and goods between the colony and the outside worlds. It was dangerous work, as they risked the wrath of both Starfleet and the Klingons who patrolled the borders of Omega Leonis, but they were compensated generously by whoever requested their services. For example, Selak had been required not only to provide a sizeable chunk of credit, but also to relinquish a percentage of his food supply business just to be able to afford the first shipment of rhuludian crystals they’d collected for him. He’d judged it a worthwhile trade.

The Andorians had at last contacted him a few hours ago to confirm his purchase had arrived safely back on Alpha and was awaiting pick-up at the shipyard. This, however, was the truly dangerous part of the transaction. This was when people got nervous and greedy and backed out of hard-won agreements, so he’d prepared accordingly.

He was sitting presently in the passenger seat of an old four-wheeled, carbon-fuelled vehicle with his small team of private security packed in tight around him. They wore the sleek, black leather armour of the Votans, a former street gang that had earned some prestige when they’d started hiring themselves out to protect the wealthy. Thuggish but effective, was the general recommendation.

They drove out past the spreading tangle of urbanization, out past the shadow of Alpha’s fortified stronghold, along a winding stretch of deserted road towards the shipyard that lay beyond. None of the ships docked here were very large or particularly special. Anything truly valuable went straight to the Klingons, after all. He pointed out the Andorian vessel with snapping fingers and they steered towards it, pulling up short some distance away. Several of the Andorians already stood outside their ship, waiting.

Selak reached for the door handle.

The driver put out a hand to stop him. "Wait." He got out first, prowling around the front of the vehicle and planting himself squarely in front of the Andorians, hand resting on the gun at his hip. The two Votans in the back seat climbed out after him. They opened the passenger door for Selak, and as he stepped out they flanked him protectively.

The lead Andorian cocked his head as they approached. "We do not double-cross our trading partners. There is no need for threats of violence."

"Call me overly cautious," he conceded. "You have my crystal?"

"We do." He beckoned, and an associate came forward. He was carrying three small plastite containers. He set them down on the ground a few feet from Selak, and one by one pried off the lids to reveal the blue granulated crystals inside.

"It looks less than I imagined."

"Then your imagination is flawed," the Andorian snapped. "This is exactly the amount you asked for. Where is our payment?"

The first Votan glanced back at him, waiting for his nod. Only then did he produce the handful of credit chips and the folded contract which the Andorians had demanded.

"Forty-nine percent ownership of my business and the credit we agreed on."

The Andorian took the papers and looked over them quickly. Apparently finding everything in order, he folded them and tucked them away, along with the credit chips. "Perfect. It will be a pleasure to continue working with you. Enjoy your crystal."

His Votan moved forward and hefted up the containers. The Andorians turned and walked back to their ship, and just like that the transaction was complete.

"We should leave. Now," the Votan cautioned. His gaze was alert and watchful, scanning the shadowed spaces between ships for lurking observers.

Selak nodded, and they hurriedly got back into the safety of the vehicle. The containers were stacked in the back seat and the engine thrown into gear. They reversed with barely concealed haste, and sped out of the shipyard back onto the long road that led back to Alpha.

Selak breathed a sigh of relief. It was done. Without a hitch, even. He could barely believe the ease with which everything had progressed. Finally, he could set about making some real credit. Maybe he hadn't been able to afford the largest initial quantity, but he planned to cut it with coloured sugar crystals taken from his food stock back at the warehouse, make the supply stretch as far as possible. Rhuludian was rare and in high enough demand that it wouldn't be long before he was back in profit.

The car began to slow.

Selak blinked himself back to attention, looking around, but they were nowhere near the borders of the colony yet. The road stretched empty and dark ahead of them. He frowned. "Why are we stopping?"

They pulled over to the side of the road, tires crunching on dirt and gravel. The engine shut off. The Votan in the driver's seat turned to look at him.

Instinctive panic ignited in Selak and he made a grab for the door handle.

The woman in the back quickly leaned forward and slid a thin blade up against his throat. He froze in horror. "Wh-what's going on?"

His driver shrugged apologetically. "It's nothing personal. But Vek is going to need you to stay away from his business."

"Vek?! The Ferengi? I didn't -"

The other man gestured to the containers. "The drugs. That's his area and you know it."

"But I... I paid for them already! You just watched me pay!"

"Yeah. Tough break. Consider it... reparations, for our trouble."

Selak closed his eyes. "You're not Votans, are you?"

A blank voice from the back seat informed him, "The men you hired can be found back at your warehouse, detained in a storage unit. One is mind-damaged and will be difficult to wake, while the others are merely unconscious."

The blade at his throat was slowly withdrawn, and Selak felt a moment's bemused hope that he might at least come through the encounter unharmed.

"Take this as your one and only warning," the driver advised quietly. "Cut into Vek's profits again and he's not going to be so lenient." He slid the disruptor gun from its holster on his belt, tapping it idly against his knee.

"This is _lenient_?!"

Blue eyes flicked towards him. "Yeah. It is." Then he lifted the gun and shot Selak in the leg.

He yelled as the searing heat ripped across his thigh. The driver ignored him, leaning across to shove open the passenger door and pushing him out. He landed on the roadside in a cloud of dirt, still clutching his leg.

"Like I said - it's nothing personal."

And then they were driving away, the entirety of Selak’s financial future resting in their back seat.

 

* * *

 

 

"Did you enjoy that?"

Jim met Nyota's dark eyes in the rear-view mirror. "I did, actually." It at least made a pleasant change to _them_ being the ones getting screwed over. He felt like they were back at the Shipyard Bar, running a con on some unsuspecting tourist. It was that same rush of superiority.

"You play 'common thug' pretty well."

He shrugged. "That's what we are now, remember?"

They drove on in thoughtful silence, towards the chemical lights of Alpha and their new place in the universe.


	12. Chapter 12

**Stardate 2255.256.**

**Sif System.**

**Sif Alpha.**

 

Jim took the wrapped food carefully, trying not to spill anything. “ _Sala_.”

The vendor snorted amusement at his linguistic efforts.

They walked on, Jim worriedly eyeing the purplish strips of meat and yellow beans in his wrap, before shrugging and taking a bite. It wasn’t terrible.

Dawn had finally come to Alpha, and the bazaar looked like a different place in the intense red light. It was busier, brighter, louder. People didn’t just browse at the stalls, they stood in groups and chatted. Livestock animals squawked and howled and bleated like they’d suddenly woken up, and flies had materialised from nowhere, descending in clouds upon anything edible. Children of all conceivable ethnicities ran about underfoot. Jim watched them closely whenever they neared, wary of small thieving hands. The heat had been the real surprise, however. He hadn’t been prepared for the blast of temperature until they’d all woken up nearly roasted alive within their storage container.

They’d officially been in Vek’s employ for a week now, and to Jim’s honest surprise the Ferengi hadn’t yet requested the return of the red matter, nor made any attempt to steal it out from under them. It seemed Nyota had been right. Vek was confident enough in his ability to take it when needed that he was willing to let the matter lie for now. Jim supposed they should count their blessings.

Truth be told, signing on with Vek wasn’t bad work, if you could get it. The credit was good, and as far as Jim could tell, the Ferengi hired so many people not because of any great workload, but solely for the joint purposes of security and intimidation. It meant there wasn’t actually a whole lot they were called on to do, at least so far. Even the task they were currently performing, while hardly pleasant, certainly wasn’t a strain on anyone’s abilities.

Jim stuffed the last of his wrap into his mouth and licked his fingers clean, trailing behind Spock as the two of them moved through the bazaar. He watched the faces of xenos they passed, marvelling at some of the strange features and listening to the clatter of alien languages. Nyota had already started to pick up words and phrases, but to Jim it all sounded like so much noise. Still, it was a welcome distraction of sensory input, as he tried to avoid considering what they were about to do. Red light glinted off shining items on display around them, and the heat hazed the air a few inches above the dusty ground. He let himself be mesmerized by the sights.

Then Spock stopped walking so abruptly that Jim nearly crashed into him.

The Vulcan was staring intently at the content of one of the stalls. Curious, Jim stood on his toes and peered over Spock’s shoulder, trying to spot what had so thoroughly caught the other’s attention. But it was all just bric-a-brac as far as he could tell. Woven reed baskets full of coloured pebbles; electric and chemical lamps; humanoid and animal statues made of some deep green stone; even an old Terran paperback. At first he thought that might be what Spock was looking at, but then his eyes landed on a glass-plated piece of parchment next to the book. It was covered in hand-inked, vertical-flowing spirals and curlicues.

“I believe that is Vulcan script,” Spock said.

“Oh.” Jim studied it with a frown, tilting his head as he tried to make sense of the continuous columns of intricate spirals. “What does it say?

” “I never learned to read Vulcan,” Spock admitted. “I only recognise the distinct characteristics. It surprised me, to see it here.”

The vendor behind the stall finished speaking with another customer and turned her attention on them. “Ah, you’re interested in relics, yes?” She touched the framed piece of parchment gently. “This one is very special, my most valuable prize. One of the last surviving artefacts of an extinct -” Her eyes abruptly widened as she took her first proper look at Spock, and almost immediately her tone shifted from commercial excitement to faux solemnity. “Sir, you’re a survivor of the Va’Pak? My eternal sympathies. And of course, you simply _must_ take with you any and all remnants from your lost world which I have managed to collect. For a small fee, I also have -”

“I don’t wish to buy relics from you,” Spock interrupted. “Vulcan or otherwise.” He turned and strode stiffly away.

Jim shrugged at the annoyed looking woman, then hurried after him. They walked shoulder to shoulder in silence for a few seconds, before he ventured hesitantly, “Vek just paid us. You could probably afford it. If you wanted something to... remember, I mean.” Even now, he still wasn’t entirely sure of how to address the issue of Vulcan’s destruction around Spock.

“I will not pay that woman to exploit the death of a species. Besides, they are likely false relics.”

Well that was true, he supposed. As people finally recovered from the shock of realising that an entire planet could be removed from existence, a more utilitarian reaction had settled in and Vulcan’s destruction had become a morbid curiosity. People gossiped about it. They speculated on what Vulcans could possible have done to bring about such retribution. Superstitions had risen up almost overnight, and Jim had seen more than one person react to Spock as though the mere sight of him was an unlucky omen. Vulcans were suddenly fascinating and taboo in equal measures - it was only natural that selling miraculously intact trinkets from their world was the next big moneymaker.

"I overheard one of Vek's attendants discussing Romulans earlier," Spock said, in a clear attempt to change the subject. "He mentioned Nero."

Jim looked across at him questioningly.

"He has used the red matter again; he destroyed a Starfleet defence outpost and two constitution-class ships in the Sierra system."

"So he really was serious about taking on the Empire, then," Jim mused, shaking his head with a wince. "Wasn't sure if that was all just crazed ranting, you know?"

"He was indeed serious, as are the Klingons. I have heard Klingon forces are currently preparing to make an assault on a second front while Starfleet are occupied in skirmishes with the Romulans. They are even purchasing Vek's men to enhance their militant numbers."

Jim stopped walking in sudden alarm. "Who told you that?"

The Vulcan paused beside him. "No one told me directly. I happened to be in the vicinity while the matter was being discussed."

"So you eavesdropped. Vek's not thinking of selling us off, is he? I mean, he can't. Can he?"

Spock inclined his head. "It is certainly within his power to sell the contracts we signed. Whether he is inclined to do so is another matter."

Jim wiped his forehead, damp with sweat in the red heat. "He still hasn't found the stuff yet. He'd be stupid to try and get rid of us before he's got it. Right?" It went without saying that he didn't intend to comply if Vek _did_ take it into his head to try and ship them off to the war with Starfleet, but he'd prefer to avoid that particular fight if possible. Though the thought brought other concerns to mind.

They resumed walking. "Listen, I've been thinking: we need to find someone here who can get these implants out of us. We ever need to make another quick getaway, I'd rather not have Starfleet descend on us the minute we step back into Imperial space."

"I agree. In fact, I brought up the matter again with Doctor McCoy, but he insists that without specialist equipment he would be unable to perform the operation. He said the implants are microscopic, and cannot be seen, much less removed, using only the naked eye."

Jim considered. "What type of equipment is he talking about?"

"You would have to clarify that with him."

"Yeah. I will."

They were nearing their destination, and Jim finally felt his nerves settle in. He didn't want to be doing this, but he suspected that was exactly why Vek had chosen them to send, the vindictive dick. It was one last test of loyalty.

The sound of voices rose as they approached a gathered crowd at the very centre of the bazaar. There were people lined up on a raised platform of wooden decking, their hands bound behind their backs. A couple were Bajoran, several were Deltan, but the clear majority were Terran. Jim squinted, noting the tattered remnants of Starfleet uniforms they all wore. So this was what became of conscripts, he thought bitterly. Auctioned off to xenos in some dank corner of the galaxy.

The Orion trader standing on the auction pedestal announced a successful bid and another of the newly branded slaves was pulled from the platform and handed over to his buyer. The next round of bidding promptly began.

They made their way closer, slipping around the edges of the crowd and over to one side of the platform. An Orion guard stepped up to meet them.

"We're here for Vek's order," Jim said.

The Orion smirked. "So you two are his new errand boys, are you?"

"Can you just help us out without the wisecracks? That would be great."

"Yeah, yeah. This Terran he's buying must be someone pretty important. We've never had any one slave sell for so much. Who is he?"

"No idea," Jim lied. "Just get him please?"

The Orion scowled and walked away, disappearing into a nearby house. They watched the auction while they waited. One of the Bajorans was sold to an Andorian merchant, then another Terran was pushed forward to take centre stage. Jim looked away. He wondered just how close their own lives had swerved to that particular fate.

There was a scuffle, and they turned to see the Orion dragging another slave from the house. Despite his bound wrists, he was struggling for all his worth, kicking up clouds of russet dust. The Orion managed to trip him, and he landed on his knees at Jim and Spock's feet.

They looked down into the furious, dirt-stained face of Captain Christopher Pike.

Even having known what to expect, it still felt surreal. Jim had to wonder what unfortunate channels the older man had passed through to end up here, considering that the last time they'd laid eyes on him his ship had been under Romulan fire back in the distant Vulcan system. Had they captured him then, and simply passed him on as a prisoner of war? Or had he escaped that particular attack, only to fall victim somewhere else? Jim hadn't been able to find out.

Missing his patch, Pike's eyes widened at the sight of them. He looked stunned for a few seconds, then a sneer formed on his face and he spat at Jim's feet.

Jim frowned, embarrassed and annoyed. He scuffed his boot through the dirt to clean it. “We’ll take it from here, thanks.”

Vek had sent payment ahead of them, so the Orion turned without protest and headed back to the auction, leaving Jim and Spock to reach down and grasp the former captain by the arms, hauling him to his feet. He tried to jerk away, but neither of them let go as they began to walk back the way they’d come, Pike firmly pinioned between them. Jim kept his eyes ahead, reluctant to look too closely at the older man.

“So this is where you ended up, is it?” Pike snarled quietly at him. “This is what you left the Empire for? All this... _glory_?”

Jim made no comment. People were watching them as they marched through the streets of the bazaar, but no one looked overly alarmed. Slaves being purchased and transported was hardly an uncommon sight.

Obviously dissatisfied by the lack of response, Pike tried again. “I spoke to Winona. You’ve ruined her, you know that? God knows she never expected much from you, but terrorism and rebellion? Her career’s over. Sam’s too, probably. I hope you’re proud, son.”

A shamed flush rose on Jim’s face at the mention of his mother. He hadn’t seen her in nearly two years, since the last time she’d had to bail him out of the drunk tank back in Iowa, but the memory of her picturesque disgust was still etched clearly in his mind.

Pike went on, an outpouring of vitriol. “You had an opportunity to earn back some of the respect your father squandered. All you had to do was keep your stupid mouth shut and your head down - but I suppose that was just too damn difficult.”

When Jim still refused to concede a response, the former captain seemed to grow more and more incensed. He looked at Spock, raking a scornful glare up and down him. “And for what? You betray your family, your Empire, your entire _race_ \- all of it left in the dust so you can stand side by side with xeno scum like this? You’re a piece of work, Kirk.”

Annoyance flickered across the Vulcan’s face, and he turned to perhaps voice a retort. Instantly, Pike’s head whipped forward, cracking into Spock’s mouth in a vicious headbutt. The Vulcan stumbled slightly, caught unprepared.

Quick, hot fury rose in Jim, and before he was even aware of moving he had the captain slammed up against the support post of a nearby stall, forearm jammed up under the other’s chin.

“Jim!” Spock protested, as people around them came to a standstill to watch the confrontation.

He ignored them.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he hissed at Pike. “I just wanted to be left alone - me and all the ‘xeno scum’. It was _you_ and the rest of Starfleet that put us here. So fuck you. I hope you get what’s coming.”

A gloved hand closed carefully on his shoulder, urging him back. “Jim. You are causing a scene. We should continue on.”

He relented with a final shove. As Pike coughed air back into his throat, Jim glanced back at Spock. A spatter of green blood was smeared across the Vulcan’s mouth, and his eyes lingered on the injury, anger still close to the surface.

Spock wiped it away self-consciously.

With a growl, Jim shoved Pike ahead of him, almost tripping the man. He wanted this task over with. Fuck Vek for giving it to them anyway.

They left the bazaar without further incident. Pike didn’t speak again, stewing instead in sullen, scornful silence, and Jim didn’t bother with what taunts of his own he could have offered. As satisfying as it might once have been to humble the decorated captain who’d mocked him on a bar room floor, he didn’t exactly feel proud of himself at this moment in time. This wasn’t victory; it wasn’t even real superiority. This was Jim doing the dirty work of a man even _he_ thought was a lowlife.

The fortress which overlooked Alpha was of Klingon design; blockish and practical. All stone and sharp metal, it had been built to house soldiers, weapons and warships - not lavish mercenaries who enjoyed their comforts. Still, Vek and all those who’d come before him had done their level best to add a touch of opulence. A standard hung fluttering over the main entrance, stained in red ink with Vek’s personal symbol and making Jim roll his eyes every time he saw it. Pretentious bastard.

Cardassian security waited just inside. They’d come to know Jim and Spock by sight already, so didn’t bother with the typical pat-down, but stood for a minute exchanging comments with Jim. He’d been making sure to ingratiate himself during the last week, making allies among the ranks in case they ever needed a favour or two. Pike scoffed at the display of friendship.

They hauled the former captain inside and up a set of carpeted stone stairs. Archaic paintings and statues decorated the halls, taken from all corners of the galaxy and looking thoroughly out of place against the stark architecture. Hand-crafted chandeliers lit with blue and white chem-lights overhung the more populated areas, and had probably cost more to commission than it would take to feed all of Alpha for a year. Security cameras followed their every move.

The prisons were located mid-level within the fortress, a peculiarity which Jim had wondered about at first. He’d come to learn that it was because the most secure underground floors had long been reserved for housing the computer systems which had once aided in ship navigation and battle coordination during the Imperial wars. Though nowadays, the bank of computers went largely unused, except perhaps to download Orion porn for bored mercenaries.

They placed Pike in a cell without bothering to untie his wrists, activating the energy field across the doorway which would deliver a nasty neural shock to anyone foolish enough to draw near.

“Kirk, wait!” the captain made one last-ditch appeal. “Think about this, son. It’s not too late to go back. Get me out of here and you’ll be called a hero throughout the Empire.”

Jim gave a humourless smile. “It was too late from the moment Starfleet stuck a chip in my arm. Guess we all just have to live with the consequences now.”

 

* * *

 

 

Spock jabbed at the buttons on the small handheld console, guiding his computerised avatar around a bend in the racetrack. Jim’s shoulder bumped his as enthusiasm got the better of him and he leaned into an imaginary swerve. Sitting opposite them, Doctor McCoy grunted satisfaction as his character sped into first place.

The computer game was not at all like the more realistic modern simulations. It was an outdated Terran module full of overly vibrant colours, cartoon design, and utterly ridiculous plot devices. Jim had discovered the consoles and cartridges somewhere in Alpha’s marketplace and returned with them like he had unearthed buried treasure. His abundance of excitement was the sole reason he, Spock and the doctor were currently sitting cross-legged on the floor of their storage container engaging in competitive multi-player.

McCoy flashed a confident smirk as they entered the final lap of their race. “Who says you need depth perception...”

“Don’t get cocky yet, Bones,” Jim warned. Both he and Spock’s characters were coming up fast on the inside, but it still seemed unlikely that they could overtake in the rapidly decreasing distance which remained between the doctor and the finish line.

That was until Jim clicked a button, and deployed some form of winged missile from his comically constructed cart. It shot forward and targeted the doctor’s character with precision, exploding and tossing his cart up into the air.

“What the hell was that?!”

“Blue shell. Best item in the game. How do you not know that yet?” He bounced happily as he and Spock cruised smoothly past McCoy’s stalled character and over the finish line.

The doctor snapped the game console closed in annoyance. “Damn stupid rules. Thought we were supposed to be racing, not throwing around... _shells_ and banana peels.” He climbed stiffly to his feet, his patience for such antics evidently at an end.

“Oh come on! Don’t be a sore loser. I’ll give you a rematch!”

Doctor McCoy made a hand gesture which suggested exactly what Jim could do with his rematch, though it mostly only succeeded in entertaining the younger man all the more thoroughly.

“Play again?”

Spock glanced across at the Terran. His mouth was curled at the corners, blue eyes dancing with challenge. His enjoyment was almost contagious.

“Very well.” He hesitated before immediately restarting the game, however. For a few seconds he deliberated, then set the console down while he pulled off his gloves, placing them carefully in his lap.

Jim stared in surprise.

Spock didn’t quite meet his gaze. “I wish to win this time, and am merely ensuring I have maximum dexterity.” With conscious effort he tried to ignore the strange vulnerability he felt at baring his hands while in company. It was difficult to remember the last time he had done so when the act was not brutally necessary.

He flexed his fingers experimentally, and blue eyes flicked down to watch the movement.

“Are you ready?”

“What? Yeah.” Jim cleared his throat slightly, then grinned. “Yeah, bring it on. But gloves or no, I’m still gonna win.”

Spock quirked an eyebrow. “I disagree.”

The Terran laughed, bright and happy, and Spock blinked in something like shock. He didn’t think he’d caused such a reaction in anyone before, ever; certainly not by means of so simple a statement. He found himself both bemused and oddly pleased by the accomplishment.

As they resumed their computerised race, McCoy joined Nyota and Scotty, who were finishing the day’s meal at the little metal table they’d recently purchased. Their conversation drifted across the room.

“How’s the merc work going, then?” Scotty asked, voice muffled by the dumpling he had just crammed into his mouth.

“Just fine, for those two,” Nyota complained, gesturing at Spock and Jim. “But I’m a ‘weak and wilful woman’, remember? The only thing I’m trusted to do is... _babysit_ prisoners. He’s got me standing round that stupid castle like a spare part.”

“I did warn you,” McCoy pointed out, stealing a morsel of food from her plate. “I said you wouldn’t like it.”

“Yeah, well so far I’m not liking much of anything about this place.”

The doctor shot her a look, mouth curving flirtatiously. “Not even the company?”

Whatever she might have replied was lost under the sound of Scotty’s loud and overly obnoxious scoff. “Oh bloody hell, don’t you two start,” he said irritably. “As if it’s not bad enough watching Thelma and Louise over there make eyes at each other. I don’t sodding well _enjoy_ playing fifth wheel, you know.”

Spock looked up, momentarily distracted enough that his game character crashed into a barrier without his notice. He knew what the Scotsman was trying to imply. It was the same misinformed assumption that the Orion woman at Avatar had made, and Spock still didn’t understand why it kept happening. He did not ‘make eyes’ at Jim. And he was more than certain Jim did not regard him in such a manner, either. The Terran had made that abundantly clear.

He abruptly recalled the game and glanced back down, only to find that Jim had paused it. He was watching Spock intently.

The Vulcan felt unexpectedly flustered.

“I apologise. I am ready to continue.”

Jim’s face remained serious for a few seconds, then the moment broke with a grin. “Good. Now stop stalling and lose like a real man.”

 

* * *

 

 

 Spock stepped back into the prison block hallway of Vek's fortress, following the Ferengi as he shuffled towards Pike's cell. He'd had the former captain at his mercy for three days now, though if his palpable frustration was anything by which to judge, he had yet to get what he wanted from him. It made Spock wary about why he'd been brought here, particularly since neither Jim nor Nyota had been permitted to accompany him.

"You know why I bought this Starfleet bastard?" Vek asked over his shoulder.

"I believe I can hazard an informed guess," Spock admitted. "As a captain of renown, Christopher Pike would have been privy to a large quantity of information which could prove invaluable to the rebel war effort."

"Well aren't you the bright one," Vek muttered. "Yes, he has a fortune's worth of secrets in his head and so far he hasn't given up one of them."

They came to a stop outside the small room in which Pike was locked. Spock suspected he knew where this was going.

"Now, if I had all the time in the world, I'd get answers out of him the old-fashioned way. But I don't. This war is starting, and I want information to sell while it's still relevant." He turned a sharp-toothed grin on Spock. "Course, then I remembered I have a Vulcan on staff nowadays. And what use are you if you can't go rooting around in his brain for me and find out everything I want to know."

Spock tensed, staring at Pike's cell door with trepidation. "Perhaps Jim did not inform you, but my telepathy is not to the standard of a typical Vulcan."

"Well unfortunately for the both of us, 'typical Vulcans' are in short supply these days. You make do." Vek leaned in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I don't much mind if you leave him a drooling vegetable when you're done - provided, of course, you get what I want first."

"And what is it you want, exactly?"

"Anything I can broker to the Klingons: Imperial war plans, attack strategies, flight formations, ship designs - you get the idea. Do you know how much it cost me to get my hands on a live Starfleet captain? I fully intend to make it all back, and more. You help me in that and we could make each other very happy."

Spock felt vague revulsion, but nodded anyway to indicate his consent.

"Good man." Vek hit the button which deactivated the energy field across the cell door, then stood back as if to watch.

Hesitantly, Spock moved past him and into the cell. Pike's arms had been raised over his head and chained to the ceiling. His toes barely touched the floor, so most of his weight was suspended. He bore severe burns across his torso and shoulders, visible through the rips in his bloodstained shirt, and when he raised his face to glare at Spock, he revealed dark bruises around his eyes and mouth.

Perhaps it was a mercy, Spock privately reasoned, that this was how answers would be taken from him instead of cut from his flesh.

The former captain did not seem to share the sentiment, however. He began to twist and struggle as Spock stripped off his gloves. The Vulcan raised his thigh to block a particularly savage kick to his groin, then stepped quickly inside the other man's guard. Pike started to shout a protest, but it ended in a gurgle as Spock touched his fingers to the captain's face.

He pressed forward into yet another foreign mindspace, knowing immediately that this would be far more difficult than when he had sieved casually through Hasar's scattered thoughts. Pike had a stronger will, and fought against him instinctively. Fiery gusts of emotion - outrage and disgust and hatred - buffeted Spock until he could hardly orient himself. He twisted under the assault, trying to fight his way free and dive deeper. Distant pain lanced through him at the effort.

It was indeed a militant mind he found himself inhabiting. Thoughts were short and hard and sharp, like metal, and the space behind them cold and dark. Spock reached for them, searching for anything relevant. He cracked open memories like lock-boxes, rifling through their content before discarding them. There was little order to his examination at first, as he sought only to familiarise himself with the other's mental storage system.

Pike launched another defensive attack, employing clumsy but intractable willpower to try and force Spock out. It pushed against him, pounded down on him, screamed at him in wordless, directionless fury. It hurt, and Spock lost what remained of his temperance. He lashed back at the hostile mindspace, hoping to stun Pike into submission while he finished his task.

It seemed to work, so Spock quickly set about plundering more memories, following them along thought pathways which led to Starfleet. These were the well-protected things, the secrets and the valuables. He began sifting through them as swiftly as he was able.

But much of what he found was useless - personal details of Pike's crew, the dates of upcoming shore leave, the appointment for his last weapons proficiency check. Frustrated, Spock swept it all aside. He needed something of far more worth or Vek wouldn't be satisfied, and Spock didn't relish the idea of doing this again. He forced his way deeper, beginning to break open the most heavily guarded of the memories. These were more helpful. He cherry-picked pieces of information he thought Klingons might be most interested in purchasing, examining and hoarding them to himself.

He felt like he was finally beginning to make some progress when a frisson of unease gave him pause. He stopped, knowing something was wrong but not quite what it was.

Weakness came over him unexpectedly, and without warning he felt his hold on the foreign mindspace slipping. He tumbled back into the confines of his own head, and waves of exhaustion promptly crashed down on him. His hand dropped from the unconscious captain's face, falling like a dead weight at the end of his arm. He stepped backwards, but his balance didn't feel right and he fell against the cell wall. Pain was rising steadily from the base of his skull, radiating outwards until most of his brain felt aflame.

Vek appeared before him, grasping his shoulder and giving an unhelpful shake. "What did you get?"

"Not everything," Spock admitted through gritted teeth. He could taste the copper tang of blood, and realised it had poured down from his nose. "I can... I can give you starbase locations. Security codes. Where... where the families of some of the Admirals are being kept."

The Ferengi scowled. "That's it? That's not going to buy me _lunch_. You need to get back in there and find me something worth selling."

Spock wanted to explain that he didn't think he could physically do that. Something was wrong. He needed to close his eyes; he needed to heal. He couldn't see properly through the green haze of pain.

His back scraped down the wall as he slid to the floor.

Standing above him, Vek cursed profusely. He pulled out a comm unit and flipped it open, and just before Spock lost consciousness entirely he heard him spitting, "Kirk! Come get your Vulcan. He's littering up my cell block."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to let people know that from now on updates will be posted once a fortnight instead of every week. Trying to keep up the pace I've been going at is starting to really stress me out and the last thing I want is to get burned out on this story. 
> 
> Hope you all understand! Sorry for any frustration.

**Stardate 2255.259.**

**Sif System.**

**Sif Alpha.**

 

“So what the hell is wrong with him?”

They’d somehow managed to transport the near comatose Vulcan back to the storage container and lay him out on one of the beds. With his surprising weight, it had taken both Jim and Scotty to lift and carry him into a borrowed vehicle, the entire process made more complex by their reluctance to touch any bare skin. McCoy’s clinic had been the first stop, but after taking one look at him the doctor had refused to keep him there. Instead he’d come with them back to the storage field, where a rather memorable scene had unfolded as they’d set about deciding how exactly to get an unconscious, weighty Vulcan up to their third-floor container. In the end, Jim had bitched loudly to anyone who’d listen as he’d sweated and struggled his way up the ladder, Spock slung like a bag of rocks over his shoulder and most of their neighbours gathered to watch the show.

Spock hadn’t stirred once throughout the entire journey.

It had been over an hour and still nothing. Currently, they stood watching the Vulcan with varying degrees of concern.

McCoy plucked absently at the string of his eyepatch. “Given what he was doing at the time, I’m going to go out on a limb and say psychic exhaustion.”

“Is that bad?” Nyota asked, chewing her lip.

“It’s not even something I know much about, beyond having heard the term,” the doctor admitted. “Even when I had a license, I only really dealt with humans. Afflictions of the mind-reading xeno are hardly my area of expertise.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Jim demanded. “Just leave him like this?”

“It’s the only thing I can think to recommend,” McCoy said with a helpless shrug. “We managed to find the only faulty Vulcan in the galaxy, so it’s not like any of us can touch him without making things worse. Leaving him alone to sleep it off is the best option I can think of.”

Scotty scratched his head. “So he was trying to - to mind-read or what have you. Thought you said he didn’t like doing that sort of thing.”

“He doesn’t,” Jim answered grimly. “Vek wanted secrets out of Pike, made Spock get them.”

“I’m really starting to hate that man,” Nyota said quietly, her expression dangerously blank.

Jim rubbed his eyes tiredly, bracing one forearm against the upper bunk of the beds. Spock didn’t even look like he was dreaming, he realised. He was too still, his eyes unmoving behind closed lids. Green blood was still crusted beneath his nose, since no one had dared wipe it away for fear of making skin contact, and it made his already pale pallor look more sickly than ever. Resting at his sides, his hands were uncovered for once, gloves removed during his meld with Pike.

Before he realised what he was doing, Jim reached down and tugged at the bedsheet, flipping it so that both the Vulcan’s hands were concealed beneath. It felt indecent to leave them bare, at least with Spock out cold like this.

He straightened and turned back to the others, but froze when he found all three watching with strange expressions.

“What?”

Scotty squinted at him. “I can’t tell if he’s really that daft or he thinks we are.”

“It’s him, trust me,” Nyota muttered, rolling her eyes.

Before Jim could form a retort, his communicator buzzed. He opened it with a sigh, already knowing what to expect.

_“What’s happening with the Vulcan, then? Is he ready for round two yet?”_

“Wh- _No_ , he’s still... out of commission.”

_“Delicate flower, isn’t he? Well I’m not paying you to stand at his bedside. You and the woman get back to work. And listen, I want him back here the moment he deigns to open his eyes.”_

The connection cut, and Jim flipped closed the comm unit with more force than necessary. He looked at Nyota. “We need to go.”

She slumped, obviously reluctant. “Oh good, I was worried we’d miss out on a fun day of scaring children.”

McCoy and Scotty stared at her worriedly.

“I’m sorry - _scaring children_?”

Jim let out a long breath. “Before we had to come get Spock, we were on our way to find some kid who’s gotten himself on the wrong side of Vek.”

“Are you being serious?” the doctor asked incredulously. “How does a _kid_ piss off the high and mighty merc lord of Alpha? How old are we even talking here?”

Jim and Nyota exchanged uncomfortable glances. “I, uh... I think he’s sixteen? Maybe?”

“ _Sixteen_? Oh, well why didn’t you say! What did he do, get a hard-on for one of Vek’s two dozen concubines?”

“He’s been making and selling tech or something. Must be making enough credit that he got Vek’s attention.”

“And what the hell are you two going to do? Beat him up for his lunch money?”

“Bones, relax! We’re not going to touch him, alright?” Jim didn’t think it would come to that, in all honesty. How hard could it be to intimidate a sixteen year old, tech genius or otherwise?

Vek had been bemused when his men first came to him with devices and weapons which had somehow made it into the colony without his knowledge. Then he’d become aware of how much credit the new tech was generating, and none of it coming to him. He’d sent Jim and Nyota to inform the teenager that, like anyone else making credit on Alpha, he owed a cut to the mercenary.

McCoy hardly looked appeased. He turned away with a snarl, and everyone in the room could feel him radiating disapproval.

Jim glared at his back. “It’s not like we’re _enjoying_ this, you know. You think I came out here expecting to... to torture Starfleet captains and strong-arm kids?!”

“Well what _did_ you expect?” McCoy snapped.

He felt stupid admitting that he’d thought it would be a slight step up from their activities back at the Shipyard Bar. Stealing, drugs running, glorified armed bodyguard. He could have done all that with a clear conscience, never thinking twice.

“Forget it,” he said instead. “Like I said, we’re not gonna do anything you can’t forgive.”

He turned and climbed down onto the ladder. With one last apologetic look for the doctor, Nyota followed.

Scotty had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange. Now he darted forwards, hurrying down after them.

“Oh that’s fine,” McCoy said loudly to an empty room. “You all go. I’ll just stay stuck here. Goddamn hobgoblin...”

Jim’s boots hit the dirt and he started striding, agitated and annoyed. Nyota kept pace. They moved fast enough that Scotty had to run to keep up with them.

“Wait, wait, wait!” He grabbed Jim’s arm, pulling him to a stop.

“What?”

“This kid. Terran, right?”

“Yeah.”

Scotty scratched his chin, already nodding like he knew the next answer. “Wouldn’t happen to be Russian, would he?”

“I honestly have no idea. Why?”

They started walking again, Scotty hurrying alongside them.

“Well, see, remember that contact I said I had on Alpha...?”

Jim snorted. “A sixteen year old? Really?”

“Good to know you brought us across the galaxy on the word of a child,” Nyota complained.

“You’ll be singing a different tune when you meet him, I’m telling you.”

“Why? What’s so special?”

Scotty sounded thoroughly exasperated. “Think it through, pretty boy. How many people do you know who had reason to flee Terra before they were legal to drink? For that matter, how many teenagers do you think come to the attention of the lord on high, up there in his bloody castle?”

Nyota frowned. “Alright, so who the hell is he?”

“Pavel Chekov. Russian child-prodigy; could have flown a starship at the tender age of twelve, given half a chance. Probably would have been drafted into Starfleet like the rest of his family, but... Well, the old man took the death penalty for failing a direct order from a superior officer, and to make a long story short, the kid’s been working against the Empire ever since.”

Nyota let out a slightly disbelieving laugh. “What does that mean, ‘working against the Empire’?”

“He designed and sold weapons schematics to any rebel who could afford him. Used the credit to book himself passage out here.”

Jim stopped walking again, face screwed up in bemusement. “Seriously? At sixteen?”

“Fourteen, actually.”

“Because his dad died? That’s not unheard of if you’re Starfleet.”

Scotty shrugged. “He’s a kid and Russian-crazy, what do you want me to say?”

“What _are_ you trying to say, exactly?” Jim snapped. “Fine, he’s your friend or something, I get that. But we still have to do our job. Hell, he’s been out here longer, he should know the rules.”

The Scotsman levelled a nonplussed stare at him. “You want to talk about ‘the rules’, laddie? I think you’re forgetting something. Just because you happen to work for the top dog of the moment, doesn’t mean Vek’s the only power around here.”

 

* * *

 

 

Scotty came with them, in the end.

The workshop was located in the very depths of Cheapside, where the real squalor was. Clustered around and beneath the base of the water tower, people had built a network of tightly packed shelters, constructed largely of thin pieces of corrugated metal, wire meshing, rough blocks of red stone dug from the earth, and paltry sheets of threadbare fabric. There was something vaguely insectile about the small, cramped dwellings, in Jim’s opinion. They lacked delineated boundaries, spilling over into each other. Sewage systems had never been implemented here, so the pungent smells of body odour, waste and chemical disposal were heavy in the air. Nyota crinkled her nose in distaste.

As they passed, eyes fell upon them and then quickly darted away. In their black leathers, weapons visible at the hip, Jim supposed they were recognisable as Vek’s men. Still, it gave him a vague sense of unease to realise the streets were quietly emptying around them.

It wasn’t difficult to spot the workshop nor the teenager who owned it. With curly blond hair, slight frame, and a T-shirt that swamped him, Chekov looked even younger than Jim had been prepared for. He was sitting at a makeshift work bench, a small soldering gun and circuit board in hand. As they approached the tang of heated metal filled the air. He was so absorbed in the task that it took a while for him to notice their presence.

Scotty cleared his throat, and wide eyes rose to stare at him in surprise.

"Lieutenant Scot! Privyet!"

"Told you, lad, it's not 'lieutenant' anymore," Scotty insisted, looking uncomfortable.

The teenager nodded, setting down his tools. "Da, da, of course. It is good to see you out here beyond reach of Terra Imperiya at last."

Jim glanced around the workshop, taking note of the various tools and equipment which, for this part of town, looked conspicuously expensive and out of place. He poked at a blowtorch hanging from a hook on the wall, his curiosity piqued.

"Who are your friends?"

Jim turned to regard the teenager, only to find a pale, cold blue gaze already fixed upon him. He hesitated, taken aback. It was almost possible to see the high-speed calculations running behind his eyes. Jim had noticed the same look on Spock's face, once or twice. Perhaps it just felt stranger to see in a human.

He opened his mouth to begin explaining, but realised he didn't know where to start without sounding like a badly written holovid actor. Turned out he didn't have to worry.

"They work for Vek," Scotty said bluntly. "He wants a cut of your profits, sent these two to get it."

Chekov blinked with nearly comical surprise. "Wek? Ah, he lives in big castle, yes? I do not owe him credit. I would remember."

"We're not talking about a loan so much as entitlement," Jim clarified. "You're running a pretty successful business here. He's even interested in buying up some of your product. But first we need to come to an agreement."

He would have gone on, but the teenager was already shaking his head, serene smile on his face. "Nyet, no agreement."

Jim glanced sidelong at Nyota, raising his eyebrow in surprise at the flat denial. She shrugged helplessly.

"When Wek is here to help me draw schematics and calibrate instruments, then I pay him. Until then he gets nicheva."

Jim half laughed. "Look, kid. Scotty here vouched for you so we're doing our best to be polite. But I don't think you understand -"

"Nyet, _you_ do not understand." Chekov's smile was gone now. His expression was glacial. "We do not acknowledge the authority of the Ferengi in his castle. We will not pay."

Jim stopped, struck oddly by the other's sudden use of plural pronouns.

The back of his neck began to prickle with the instinctive awareness of danger, and he turned around slowly with his hand resting on his gun. The three men behind him had already gotten closer than he would have liked, and he knew immediately that these weren't to be counted among the meek civilians who'd crept away at their arrival. One was Terran, the other two xeno, and each of them carried weapons openly. Particle guns, Jim thought at first glance, and the hilt of some blade visible over the Terran's shoulder. All wore a strip of red cloth tied around their left upper arm.

So the teenager wasn't completely unprotected after all, he realised belatedly.

"Sulu!" Chekov greeted the first of the newcomers brightly. "You sort out misunderstanding, yes? They think we owe credit."

"And who would we owe credit to?" the Terran asked, cocking his head with false confusion. He bore a jagged scar across his face and there was a nick taken from the cartilage of his ear; old injuries that testified to a history of dirty fights. "I sure hope you're not about to say the name of that decrepit Ferengi you work for."

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger," Jim said lightly. "Vek takes a cut of everything in this colony, that's just how it goes. Word is you've had a good run."

"Yeah, we have. And to tell you the truth I don't see that changing any time soon." As he spoke, Sulu took a step towards Jim until they were practically nose to nose. His xeno partners spread out, one of them circling around behind Nyota until she was forced to turn and watch him. A knife materialised in her hand, though for the moment she kept the blade pressed up along her forearm, a warning only. The other xeno neared Scotty, who held up his hands and stepped back, blatantly distancing himself from whatever confrontation was about to happen. Jim wished abruptly that they'd waited for Spock to wake up. He felt vulnerable without the Vulcan at his back.

"Let me make something clear,” Sulu said. “You’re not welcome here. Your boss and his threats aren’t welcome here. Pavel’s spoken for already.”

Jim studied the other man intently, searching for sign of a bluff. He found none. Dark eyes were steady, even bored, in their regard of him, and Jim felt his hackles rising in response.

He opened his mouth to answer, but movement caught his eye. Glancing up past Sulu’s shoulder, he froze for a moment in surprise. More figures were stepping out of the messy sprawl of shelters, walking slowly but with obvious intent. Those who didn’t have guns in their hands carried metal pipes and bars instead. All of them had the red bands of material around their arms. Nyota’s back pressed tight against his as she saw them too.

“Well this is a wee bit precarious, isn’t it,” Scotty said nervously. He held up his hands again in a placating gesture, turning to address Chekov. “Let’s not be hasty here, Pavel. I assure you they get the message. I’ll even see it delivered personally, you’ve got my word.”

The Russian had been watching proceedings with satisfaction. Now pale eyes flicked towards the Scotsman and a mild frown furrowed his brow. “We know you are not associate of Wek. You will not be harmed.”

“Maybe not, but I’m _their_ associate,” Scotty insisted frantically. “I’d rather not be left toting their corpses back home. Come on now, laddie, you owe me. I packed you onto that ship when any other officer in their right mind would have given you a swift boot up the arse and sent you home.”

Chekov very nearly pouted. “It is not real friendship when you call in chits, Mister Scott.”

“Be that as it may.”

Jim held his breath, realising that somehow his life had come to rest on the whim of a teenager. The sheer number of Sulu’s gang was far too high for him and Nyota to fight their way free of; they’d be dead the moment the word was given. Sulu himself remained poised in front of Jim, his blank expression almost more unnerving than if he’d shown anger.

“Two dead mercenaries at his door would send much louder message than cheap words,” Chekov complained. Then he sighed, picking at an oil stain on his T-shirt. “But I suppose there will be plenty of dead mercenaries soon enough.”

Jim had no idea how to react to that statement. He shot a wide-eyed look at Scotty, who could only shrug.

“Mnye vsya ravna. Take them and go.”

Sulu’s eyes narrowed momentarily, but he stepped aside. Jim grabbed Nyota’s wrist and tugged her with him as he edged past. He didn’t know where to look, which threat was the biggest. The entire crowd murmured discontentedly, fingering weapons like they still wanted to use them.

Scotty came with them, nodding his thanks to Chekov a last time.

“Tell Wek what I said,” the teenager called after them. “We do not acknowledge.”

They came closer to high-tailing it back to safety than Jim would ever admit. His breath came hard in the sudden aftermath of danger, chest aching with unused adrenaline. Next to him, Nyota was in a similar state, her mouth pressed into a thin line of tension.

“I hope you learned a bloody lesson from that,” Scotty hissed furiously. He swiped a hand through his thinning hair, glancing nervously back over his shoulder. “This is _Alpha_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jim wondered how long it had been since he'd last slept. It was difficult to track time without a sun that rose and set regularly, but he suspected it was longer than was good for him. He got back to the storage field feeling bone-tired. Vek had given them hell for long over an hour before kicking them out with snarled curses, informing them coldly that he'd be sending someone with competence and half a brain cell next time he wanted the simplest of jobs doing. Furious and shaken, Nyota had taken Scotty and stalked away to the bazaar, telling Jim she'd be back later.

He climbed the ladder with slow, stiff movements. Sitting cross-legged at the table, McCoy looked up from a data PADD at his entrance. Jim dropped into the chair opposite him, ignoring the doctor's automatic once-over for new injuries.

"No movement from sleeping beauty yet," McCoy commented, rubbing his eye.

Jim grunted. "Too bad. We could have used him out there. We got our asses kicked."

"What happened?"

"That kid we were talking about? As it turns out, not so helpless. Pretty sure he set us up."

The more Jim thought about it, in fact, the more convinced he became. Scotty had said Chekov had been living on Alpha for at least a year, and had been running the same operation for most of that time. Yet he'd managed to hide it perfectly until now, right under Vek's nose, so Jim had to wonder at him suddenly slipping up badly enough to bring mercenary attention crashing down on himself. He'd been _expecting_ their visit, or at least his pack of guard dogs had.

"Set you up? How? Why?"

"Not sure. The whole thing felt like provocation. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were just purposely trying to piss off Vek." He'd tried to explain as much to Vek himself, but the Ferengi hadn't wanted to know.

"Did anyone get hurt? Nyota?"

Jim was reluctant to admit how close they’re come to actually _being_ the bloody message sent back to Vek. He shrugged, waving off the doctor’s concern. "She's fine. She's better than fine, she's gone shopping."

McCoy visibly relaxed.

Jim smirked. "So are you going to ask her out any time soon, or...?"

The doctor scowled, fussing with the placement of his eyepatch. He didn't seem to know how to respond.

Jim's smirk turned into a full grin. "Yeah, you're not as subtle as you think you are, Bones."

"That's rich, coming from you." McCoy stood up, still looking flustered. "Since you're here, I'm going back to the clinic. I left an Andorian in the middle of a rather intimate examination."

Jim shook his head as he watched the older man leave. "She'd say yes, you know!" he shouted after him, then winced apologetically as he glanced back at Spock.

But the Vulcan was still sleeping soundly. If sleeping was even the right word. He didn't look like he'd so much as twitched a muscle in all the time they'd been gone.

Jim set his chin in his hand, stifling a yawn. He wondered bleakly what would happen when Spock did wake up and Vek sent him straight back to work. If this psychic exhaustion was a persistent kind of thing, they were going to have a serious problem. The Ferengi was rapidly losing patience with all three of them, and Jim was starting to worry that the mercenary’s tolerance would run short altogether and he'd ask for the red matter. If he got his hands on it - or even if he realised they'd hidden it from him, and had no intention of handing it over - it would no doubt be the end of any functional working relationship they'd managed to establish.

Not that he was particularly enjoying that working relationship as it was, Jim had to admit. It had been a long time since he'd consented to take order from anyone, let alone someone he didn't like. Worse still, _orders_ he didn't like. But it had seemed the best option at the time, and now they were locked in; their fortunes tied to Vek's.

He sighed, his attention drifting back to Spock. It was mildly amusing to note that the Vulcan must have neglected to shave in a while, and the shadow of dark stubble had appeared across his jaw. Jim wasn't used to seeing him anything but neat and clean-cut, even out here in the borderlands of space. His hair had grown a few inches too long as well, enough to sweep behind the points of his ears and curl slightly at the tips, falling unkempt across the pillow. He looked -

Jim's train of thought screeched to a halt as he realised dark eyes were open and watching him. He cleared his throat awkwardly and sat up straighter in his chair, embarrassed at being caught staring.

"Hey. You, uh... You back with us, then?"

Spock carefully levered himself upright. His hand rose to his temple, as though an echo of pain still lingered, then fell to dab lightly at the dried blood under his nose.

Jim got up and grabbed a spare shirt from where it had been discarded on the floor, moving to dunk it in the bucket of fresh water they kept for washing. He wrung it out, then tossed it to Spock. The Vulcan regarded the garment hesitantly, then sighed and began to clean himself up.

"I assume Vek is displeased with me."

"Yeah, well, Vek can shove it." Jim braced his hip against the table edge, folding his arms. "What happened, exactly? You've been dead to the world for hours."

"It would seem I over-exerted myself," Spock said dryly. He tilted his head from side to side, loosening muscles.

"Yeah. We got that."

Spock kept his eyes averted, seemingly uncomfortable. He looked down at his hands in his lap, fingers curling curiously.

"Your gloves are over there," Jim said, gesturing. "We didn't want to put them back on in case... Well."

"Thank you." The Vulcan got to his feet, moving to retrieve the articles of protective clothing. As he put them back on, it was like watching him don armour. Defences were back in place before Jim could so much as blink. Spock smoothed down his shirt with sharp, precise tugs; tucked and combed back his hair fastidiously; checked the last of the blood had been removed from his face. In moments, he looked as composed as ever.

But Jim still had the memory of the Vulcan draped boneless and face-down over his shoulder, stripped of his typical icy dignity, and the thought tugged gently at the corners of his mouth.

"Vek will be waiting for my return."

"Yeah, probably." Another yawn overcame him. Jim turned and slumped towards the upper bunk of one of the beds. "But I won't tell him you're awake if you don't. Get some more rest. I'll go back with you in the morning."

Spock remained for a moment in the middle of the room, indecisive. He started to walk towards the ladder.

"Seriously. Wait until I can go with you."

The Vulcan's shoulders dropped ever so slightly with something like relief.

"Very well."

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

**Stardate 2255.261.**

**Sif System.**

**Sif Alpha.**

  

Bored, Jim leaned against the wall of the nightclub, watching the dancers. He supposed 'nightclub' wasn't really an accurate description anymore, given Alpha's ongoing daylight period, but that hadn't really changed the atmosphere in Avatar. The music was as heavy and synthetic as ever; the high-ceiling room lit only by coloured strobes; the people drugged and drunk.

Still annoyed by their failure to coerce Chekov into paying up, Vek had assigned Jim to what he called 'customer service', while 'men who could be trusted to do a job' were sent into Cheapside instead. From what Jim had gathered, a group of Vek's hulking Cardassian and Bajoran bodyguards were making their way to the Russian's workshop this very moment. With his forces in Alpha depleted by half, shipped off to join the Klingon military in Qo'noS, Vek wanted any potential threat shut down quickly and permanently. Chekov should have taken the first offer.

An Orion girl made her way over to him, tottering slightly. She had the overly wide smile and blown pupils of a felicium hit.

"You've got crystal, right?"

Jim nodded. "Blue or white?"

She hummed happily, moving into his space. "Blue, please."

"Sure. Credit first."

She reached into her cleavage and pulled out a credit chip, trying to lean up against his chest as she passed it to him, blasting him with pheromones. He pressed her away with his forearm and pocketed the chip, digging out a small, plastic-wrapped package of rhuludian. She took it with a pout at his rejection, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

And that was his customer service job for the foreseeable future. He was going to lose his mind to boredom before his shift was over.

He scanned around the club again, sparing a nod for one of the other dealers across the room, who looked surprised. He was an Antaran who, like Hasar, bore a slave brand on the back of his neck. This was bottom-tier work, primarily, and it was unusual to see paid mercenaries like Jim stuck doing it; even rarer that they bother to acknowledge the slaves who typically performed the task.

Jim straightened from his slump against the wall, beginning to circle around the clustered dancers and making his way over to the bar where the Antaran stood. He perched himself on a stool next to him.

"Hey. How's it going?"

The man looked utterly bemused now, the ridges on his forehead puckering with concern. "Can I help you with something? Have you sold all of your supply?"

"Nope, just looking for some conversation." He'd been standing around here for hours, and the most intelligent exchange he'd had in all that time had involved giving directions to the nearest restroom.

"I can't imagine we have much to converse about.”

Jim shrugged. "Sure there's something. How long have you worked for Vek?"

"Since my previous owner sold me to him. Yourself?"

He stumbled over his response slightly, taken aback by the blatant admission. "I, uh - not long."

"Yes, you and the Vulcan and the woman are new to Sif Alpha, I recall." The Antaran nodded in realisation. "You're perhaps unaware, then, that we are not permitted to socialise while working. The consequences may not matter to you, but for me..."

Jim blinked. "Seriously? You hang around out in a club every day and no one can talk to you?"

"I admit, you're the first to have tried."

And with that comment, the Antaran turned and walked away, moving to occupy the space Jim had just left. Jim watched him go, gaze lingering thoughtfully on the old, scarred brand on his neck. He'd never given much thought to the slaves Vek kept before now.

He sighed, swiping a hand through his hair and glancing at the mirror hanging behind the bar, bracing himself to deal with intoxicated clubbers again. It was surprisingly difficult when he himself was cold sober.

A female voice rose in a scream, at first barely audible over the heavy beat of the music.

Jim stood up in alarm, looking around quickly as he tried to find the source. Nothing seemed any different. The dancers still undulated mindlessly. The bartender went on serving drinks. Girls on poles continued to writhe for credit chips, which they hid god only knew where. Then he looked towards the door, as a second scream rose above the noise and the former bouncer of the club tripped and rolled down the short flight of stairs. He remained still at the bottom, dead.

Jim was moving before the first shooter came through the door. He volted inelegantly over the bar, glasses and bottles shattering as he knocked them to the ground. A particle bream skimmed over his head, melting a section of the mirror. Another hit the bartender in the face, and he collapsed next to Jim twitching.

Screams went up like a roar then, drowning out the music. Jim snatched his gun from his belt, scrambling further along behind the bar with his head ducked low. A strobe light broke overhead in a burst of sparks and smoke. Someone hit the bar and toppled over it right in front of him, forcing him to a stop; a Bajoran, yet another wearing the slave brand which marked him as Vek's. He's been shot through the chest and stomach at least four times. Jim swore under his breath and rose to a crouch, daring for a second to poke his head over the top of the bar.

It was chaos.

The clubbers were desperately trying to find escape, crashing in mindless waves against the exits. But that was where the shooters stood, and they didn't hesitate to take down anyone who got too close, forcing them back into the centre of the room. All the while the music continued to thrum and screech, a soundtrack to slaughter.

At first, Jim didn't understand what the hell was happening. He looked around, wondering what had happened to the rest of Vek's men; why they weren't fighting back.

Three more of them were already dead.

The penny dropped.

Sure enough, when he looked, the red bands tied around the shooters' arms were all too familiar. They were Sulu's men. A couple of them were beginning to move forward, shoving aside scared bystanders until they reached the bodies of the dealers, then kneeling down and beginning to rifle through their pockets until they found the packets of crystal.

Jim ducked down again, mind racing as he tried to assess the situation. It was a raid, being executed quick and brutally while Vek's already depleted mercenaries were occupied somewhere in Cheapside. The clubbers weren't the targets; Jim and the other dealers were.

Wincing, he climbed over the dead Bajoran and started crawling again, making his way to where the bar curved round a corner. He's seen the bartender step down into basement storage somewhere around here. If he could just get down there, he might be alright.

There was a metal grate set in the floor. Jim squinted through it and could see stairs leading downwards. For just a moment he felt relief, but it was short-lived as he wrapped his fingers round the bars and tried to lift, only to find it locked tight.

"Oh fuck this entire day..."

He looked up fleetingly, then froze. In front of him, but out beyond the safety of the bar, the Orion girl he'd sold blue crystal to was huddled under a table. She was looking straight back at him, big fearful tears streaming down her face. Her mouth moved, trembling around a silent plea for help.

Jim looked down again, concentrating pointedly on trying to break open the lock. Feeling desperate, he placed the muzzle of the disruptor gun against it, just hoping it wouldn't blow up in his face.

Before he could pull the trigger, however, a bang and a scream made him flinch. One of the rival gangmembers had kicked over the table under which the Orion had been hiding, and was dragging her up by the hair. She howled in terror and pain, trying to twist away, but the Terran got an arm around her waist and pulled her flush in a parody of dancing.

Jim couldn't move. By some miracle the guy hadn't seen him yet, and there was a slim chance that if he moved away then Jim could still slip down into the basement unseen. He held his breath.

Then the girl met his gaze again. She watched him as the Terran groped at her hip and laughingly swayed her around with him, his gun pressed into the small of her back. Jim waited for her to call out for help, giving him away.

She didn't. She squeezed her eyes closed instead, like acceptance. Like permission to run.

"...Fuck. _Fuck_!"

Jim raised the disruptor and took his shot. It hit the guy in the neck, barely missing the Orion. Red blood splashed across her green skin, and she yelped in shock and jumped back as the Terran fell to the floor with a gurgle. Then her sense kicked in and she scrambled to take cover beside Jim.

He could already hear the changing timbre of shouts going up around them. Alarm; orders being issued; anger.

Jim made a dive for the particle gun the Terran had dropped, grasping it and pulling back as quickly as he could. A volley of shots immediately sprayed across the space he'd reached for, so close he could feel the heat searing his hand.

He thrust the second gun at the Orion, pointing at the locked metal grate. "Get that fucking thing open, _quickly_." He could only hope there was an actual exit down there, and they wouldn't just trap themselves like rodents in a hole.

Taking a breath, Jim steeled himself and rose up over the safety of the bar, gun in hand.

One of them was right in front of him and Jim shot without thought, disruptor beam slicing through the centre of his chest. Another was coming towards him from the right, already taking aim. But a panicked clubber crashed into him as she tried to run past, making him shoot wide and hit the display bottles overhead. Jim killed him too.

The third one coming towards him fell before Jim could even turn his way. He blinked in surprise, then his gaze landed on the Andaran slave on the other side of the room. He was taking cover behind an overturned table, and spared a nod for Jim before ducking down again.

"It's open! I got it open!"

The Orion had successfully broken the lock and was struggling to haul the metal grate away from the opening. Jim dropped down to help her, knowing they had seconds at best before shooters reached the bar and were upon them.

He saw the danger he was in too late to do anything about it. One of them had climbed up onto Vek's raised platform, and stood over Jim triumphantly. He held a gun outstretched before him, and sneered as he fired.

A beam of searing heat pierced downwards through Jim's chest, and he heard the Orion scream again as he toppled forward.

 

* * *

 

 

Nyota had accompanied him this time. As Spock eased himself from the meld, she tapped his shoulder gently; her way of reminding him of her presence in his moment of disorientation. Captain Pike was unconscious again, swinging limply from his chains as Spock stepped back from him. It had become easier now, to open up his thoughts. Some defences had been irreparably broken.

"Well? What'd you get?" Vek asked from right behind him.

Spock took a moment to assimilate the new stolen information, considering which parts of it would be worth voicing.

"He has seen schematics for the construction of the latest model of Starfleet warship. I can use the memory to duplicate them for you. Furthermore, I found memories of attack simulations, used to prepare strategies for warfare. I'm certain a number of them are applicable to Starfleet's engagement with Romulan and Klingon forces."

The Ferengi grunted. "Better than last time, I suppose."

Behind him, Nyota's lip curled.They were all aware that Vek's buyers would pay well for this calibre of information. The first attacks would be launched on the Imperial border beyond Omega Leonis within the week; any military advantage would be valuable indeed.

Spock was tempted to point out as much.

Before he could say anything, however, an alarm Spock had never heard before suddenly began to sound from somewhere within the fortress, high-pitched and urgent. Vek looked surprised, then a thunderous expression settled over his face. He turned and left with as much haste as his limping gait would allow.

Spock and Nyota exchanged glances, then they quickly followed him out into the hall.

The Ferengi was already speaking into a comm unit. "What do you mean they weren't there? It's a slum made of old boxes and drapery, where the hell do you think they could hide?"

The blaring noise grew louder as they move into the main stairway. Other mercenaries were running past them, hastily equipping weapons as they went. They were heading downwards, obviously called to some sort of action by the alarm.

"Listen, you little parasite. That club and what passes through it are worth more credit than you'll see in your lifetime - which will be significantly shorter if you don't get in there and get my drugs back!"

Nyota looked at him in alarm. "Is he talking about Avatar? Jim's there."

Dread settled in Spock's stomach.

"Well how many are dead? Frax! Well -"

He got no further before Spock and Nyota were pushing past him, hurtling down the stairs with the rest of the mercenaries, though perhaps for different reasons.

 

* * *

 

 

Everything was over by the time they got there.

It must have been a quick, nearly surgical strike, Spock realised. The street was crowded with people spilling out of the club doors, some of them injured and many visibly upset. Spock and Nyota pushed through the jostling crowd, making their way inside.

Some of Vek's men had arrived before them, but there was evidently little that could be done. Bodies had fallen haphazardly around the room, a number of them clad in the scanty outfits that marked them as innocent bystanders who had simply chosen the wrong time to go dancing. Others were dealers, their pockets turned out and empty.

There was no sign of those who had committed the attack.

"Look for him," Nyota instructed tightly. She strode off onto the dancefloor, not hesitating to kneel down and roll over some of the dead to check their faces.

Someone had turned up the lighting and muted the music, to Spock's relief. The place looked different without it's typical atmosphere; cheaper and far less seductive. The strange smells of burned flesh, smoke and spilled alcohol irritated his sinuses.

Spock glanced towards the bar. The bartender was dead, mutilated by a shot to the face. His eyes travelled over the glittering shards of broken glass, the dripping alcohol, the distorted mirror. Then he frowned. The trail of destruction continued the long length of the bar, though there was only one obvious casualty. Spock followed it round, noting the open basement stairs and wondering who could have gone down there with the bartender dead. He walked around behind the bar, coming to stand over the opening and peering down into the darkness curiously.

A woman's face looked back up at him. She gasped, and darted away into the depths of the basement.

Spock tilted his head, listening. "Hello? Who's down there?"

There was no response, and though his Vulcan vision could just about pierce the gloom, whoever the woman was had moved too far away from the foot of the stairs to see from this angle.

Nyota leaned over the bar, looking harried. "I can't find him. Not with the... bodies, anyway. What are you doing?"

Spock took out his gun again. "There is someone downstairs. I must determine whether they are a threat."

"Let someone else do it, we need to find Jim. He was supposed to be here, he could be -" She broke off, snapping her mouth closed and looking away.

He nodded. "I am well aware of the possibilities. I will not be long." He stepped down into the basement, weapon held before him cautiously.

The room was stacked with plastite crates and shelving units, providing plenty of concealment. There was blood on the floor, he noticed, and wondered if whoever was down here had been injured in the attack. He couldn't see her at first, but he could detect the sound of tight, rapid breathing. He turned towards it.

"I am not here to harm you. Step into the open and drop any weapons you are carrying."

There was a pause, then a female voice called out, "O-okay. Okay, I'm coming." A gun clattered out across the floor, and then an Orion stood up slowly from her hiding place behind some of the crates. She seemed unharmed upon initial observation.

Spock lowered his weapon, stepping aside so that she could pass. "Return upstairs. The danger is over."

She nodded but didn't move. "Good, that's good. But you should probably help your friend."

Spock tipped his head. "What friend?"

"I mean, I'm assuming he's one of yours, right?" She pointed down at a spot near her feet.

Somehow, Spock knew what he would find even before he approached.

Jim was propped up against one of the crates, his shirt wet with blood. He was conscious, but his breath came in ragged, audible whistles and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

"The cavalry arrives," he wheezed, grinning up at Spock. But speaking seemed to trigger a cough, and a fine spray of blood splashed down into his lap.

Spock dropped to his knees beside him, reaching out instinctively. But his hand hovered uselessly over the shot wound in the other man's chest, as he debated whether it would do more harm than good to try and staunch the bleeding by placing pressure on what clearly sounded like a collapsed lung.

"What happened?"

"Got shot. Fell down some stairs. Not my finest moment."

"Nyota!"

Her heels sounded overhead, then she began to walk down the stairs. "What's- Oh my god."

"Get Doctor McCoy."

She hesitated where she stood, poised to come forward.

"Nyota. It is better that Doctor McCoy deal with this than whatever medic Vek and his men keep on hand. Please fetch him."

She nodded, and disappeared without further protest.

Spock turned back to Jim, forcing himself with conscious effort to be cold and thoughtful and observant. The Terran was not bleeding as profusely as his initial impression had led him to believe. The shot was high on the right side of his chest, and when Spock reached carefully behind him he discovered it had angled downwards to exit just below the shoulder blade. Perhaps no major arteries had been hit, then, but his lung had certainly been punctured.

"Sulu's guys hit the place pretty hard," Jim said, pausing for breath every third word.

"Yes. They killed the majority of Vek's rhuludian dealers and a number of bystanders. From what I observed, they also took any credit and drugs they could find."

"Guess they're really making a bid for power. Vek must be pissed."

"Undoubtedly."

As they spoke, Spock took off his jacket, folding it and wedging it behind Jim, against the wound in his back. He started to look around for something he could press over the bloody hole in his chest.

"Here, use this."

He'd almost forgotten the presence of the Orion. She'd stayed to watch, and now slipped out of her own dainty cardigan and passed it to him.

Surprised, he nodded his thanks.

She continued to hover by his shoulder for a moment. Spock ignored her, but Jim gave half a smile. "Sounds like you can get out of here now."

"Yeah, I will. Just wanted to say thanks. For what you did. You didn't have to."

Jim waved her off, wincing as Spock pressed too hard on his chest. "Ah, it was nothing. Get shot for pretty girls all the time."

She huffed amusement. "I'm Gaila, by the way. Look me up when you're back on your feet." With a parting wink, she left the basement.

Disgruntled, Spock glared at him. "You should have concentrated on saving yourself."

"Aaw. You worried about me?"

"I am concerned that if you had died here, all our plans would have been for nought. I highly doubt Vek would continue trusting myself and Nyota to safeguard the red matter. He would try to take it back."

"Spock, you're getting all sentimental on me."

"My point is only that you should have been more cautious."

They lapsed into silence, Jim concentrating on drawing breath while Spock thought about what he had just said. It was technically true, but it had not been what he meant. Had he been asked even a matter of weeks ago if the death of this particular Terran would affect him in any manner, he would have been doubtful at best. Now, the thought that Jim could have died here, alone but for the company of an intoxicated xeno girl, seemed unacceptable to him. He could not bring himself to comprehend it.

"This - all this - isn't what I thought it'd be," Jim said at length, tiredly. "Don't know that I'm cut out for it."

"We have left ourselves little choice but to grow accustom to this lifestyle."

Jim snorted softly. "What if I don't want to 'grow accustomed'? Look at this - you think this is what I wanted when we came here?!" He spoke too forcefully, and coughed up another splatter of blood. "I don't... I'm not brave enough for this. I would have run. I would have left her, given half a damn chance."

Spock stopped short, unsure of how to respond. It was true that Jim Kirk would not have been his first, or even tenth, choice of companion back when they'd set out. When they'd known each other on Terra, he'd seemed little more than a nuisance, and a hostile one at that. By no means could he have anticipated the natural leadership the Terran had assumed somewhere back on Delta Vega, nor the capability for violence that had allowed him to kill unflinchingly when needed. But he'd been right in one assessment, he supposed: Jim was and ever would be a liar and a thief. Even here on Alpha, he'd bluffed and stolen and tricked his way to success.

Perhaps none of that equated to 'bravery' as Jim saw it, but on multiple occasions it had been necessary to keeping them all safe. And upon consideration of the matter, Spock thought he preferred a live cheat to a dead hero.

"Jim -"

Footsteps thumped down the stairs, and they turned to see McCoy and Nyota. The doctor was carrying a bag of what was presumably medical supplies and wore a dark scowl on his face.

"Goddamn it, Jim," he said crossly as he knelt next to the younger man, carefully plucking away the bundled cardigan Spock had used to stem the bleeding. He reached into the bag and took out scissors, immediately beginning to snip into the shirt that concealed the wounds.

"Hey! I liked this shirt."

"Shut up," said McCoy and Nyota at the same time. Spock inclined his head in general agreement.

"Well, it's not a bleeder and there's no bubbles when you're breathing." The doctor shook his head in grim amazement. "You are one lucky son of a bitch, kid."

"He has a collapsed lung."

"I can see that." The next thing that came out of the bag were a set of adhesive dressings. Rather than bandage or padding, they were made of a shiny, synthetic material. McCoy pressed one over the shot wound, sealing it down on three sides.

"You have not adequately sealed the wound, Doctor."

McCoy cast him a sour look. "I know that, I'm not a first-year med student. You leave one side open so the air gets out but isn't sucked back in."

Spock nodded, accepting the logic, and he and Nyota helped Jim lean forward while the doctor applied a similar dressing to the wound on his back. So close, Spock could hear the Terran struggling for breath.

"This does not seem a drastic enough treatment," he pointed out.

"Would you please stop playing back-seat doctor?! I'll do more when we get him back to the clinic," McCoy snapped. "I just want to -"

Jim let out a sudden choking noise. His eyes went wide as he tried to draw in another breath and couldn't manage it, hand gesturing frantically at his chest. "Can't - I can't -"

"Ah, shit." 

McCoy clambered over him, grasping his jaw and tilting it upwards. With his head raised, they could all see the odd straining of his trachea to one side.

"Goddamn it. Get him on his back. Change of plan."

He dived for his bag again, while Spock unceremoniously dragged Jim forward until he slid from his sitting position. It was obvious something had just worsened. Though the Terran's chest heaved, he couldn't even seem to find the breath to speak. He clutched at the right side of his chest, and Spock noticed the tips of his fingers were already tinged blue.

"What's happening?" Nyota demanded, fear evident in her voice.

"Starting to look like a tension pneumothorax," the doctor answered shortly. "Air in his chest cavity so he can't inflate his lungs. Gotta get it out before the pressure builds too high."

She kneeled next to his head, curling forward over him to hiss in his ear, "Come on, take it easy. He's right there, he's going to fix it. Calm down." She touched his forehead, his hair.

Spock looked on helplessly.

McCoy came back with a long-needled syringe and a bottle of clear liquid in hand. As Spock watched, he tore out the plunger of the syringe and tossed it aside. Then he opened the bottle; the smell of stringent alcohol assaulted everyone present. Working quickly, the doctor doused his hands, the syringe and Jim's side.

"Try to keep still, kid."

His fingers probed deftly along his ribs, locating the second intercostal space. He lined up the needle and with a fast, precise movement, stabbed it into the side of Jim's chest.

An audible hiss of trapped air escaped through the tube of the syringe, followed by a trickle of bloody liquid that spilled to the floor. Jim sucked in a shaky breath, and another one, gasping oxygen back into his lungs. He coughed and gurgled, but colour was already rushing back to his face.

McCoy sat back on his haunches, looking tired. "Well. If you could all stop trying to kill yourselves in quick succession, that would be just dandy. I'm a doctor, not a damn miracle worker." As he spoke, he reached into his bag again and pulled out a roll of tape. It didn't look medical grade; Spock supposed he was still forced to improvise with many of his tools. The doctor ripped off a strip and used it to secure the syringe in place.

"Where are we taking him?" Nyota asked. "Storage field or clinic?"

"Clinic, although I suppose it'll be a damn fight to keep him there."

Already accustomed to Jim's restless nature, Spock had to agree. Even now the Terran was trying to peer down at himself, curious to see what had been done. McCoy lay a quelling hand on his shoulder, visibly exasperated, while Nyota's mouth quirked in a smile.

Spock looked away, to conceal the depths of his relief.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Stardate 2255.275.**

**Sif System.**

**Sif Alpha.**

 

In the two weeks that passed - while Jim healed steadily, fortified by dosages of antibiotics and cell-stim drugs bought at an exorbitant price from the Andorian smugglers - Sif Alpha went to war.

In fact, it went to war on two fronts. Klingon warships set sail en masse, heading for the Imperial border; most of the colony had stood and watched as they’d sailed by overhead. With them went almost three quarters of Vek’s mercenary forces, bought and paid for. If the Ferengi was unhappy about such a loss to his private army, there was nothing he could do about it without breaking his own contract with the Qo’noS government.

It was a development that couldn’t have come at a worse time for Vek, because the second war was being fought in the very streets of Alpha. Sulu and Chekov’s elusive forces hadn’t stopped at the raid on Avatar. There’d been two more major attacks since then, the first of which had been committed in the shipyard in a manner not dissimilar to the deception Jim, Nyota and Spock had perpetrated against the Rigelian businessman. They’d intercepted an import of new-gen weaponry that had been destined for Vek’s few remaining mercenaries, successfully claiming it for themselves instead and leaving the Ferengi furious and out of pocket.

But the last incident had been what really escalated matters to their current state of unrestrained gang warfare. There’d been a felicium den not far from the foot of Vek’s fortress, known to be frequented by his men. In a vicious act of provocation, it had been boarded closed, doused in accelerant and set alight, so quickly that the drugged occupants had had no chance to escape.

Since then, it had been a dangerous thing to step outside in Alpha.

Sulu and Chekov were all but invisible, having promptly disappeared somewhere into the depths of the colony. If Jim hadn’t met them face to face, he’d have half doubted their existence. But members of their faction were everywhere - literally. With no discernible armour or branding beside the red armbands, which could of course be taken off at will, they hid in plain sight among innocent citizens who wanted no part in the power struggle. Unfortunately, that left the mercenaries with no clear target for retaliation. And as a result, they were starting to lash out at just about everyone.

Anyone seen in groups larger than three were descended upon, searched and interrogated. Resistance almost inevitably ended in violence. One such incident, largely by chance, had resulted in the discovery of an actual rebel; he’d been unfortunate enough to be carrying his red armband credentials and a stolen gun. The mercs had used wire to string him up on the spot, in front of a crowd of silent onlookers. That had been five days ago, and as far as Jim knew the body was still hanging.

People were scared, and it showed. Even though it was still within Alpha’s light cycle, the bazaar had nearly emptied. There were no children there anymore, no crowds of gossiping women. Shoppers hurried through with their heads bowed, loathe to even be there, and only a fraction of the merchants still dared to set out their wares. The various neighbourhoods, including both Cheapside and the storage field, were quiet but crowded, as people became reluctant to leave any shelter they could claim. Unsurprisingly, the felicium dens were abandoned. After the arson strike, only the most desperate of addicts were willing to set foot inside any of them.

Along with his profits, Vek was rapidly losing his vice-like grip on power.

Not coincidentally, Jim’s survival instincts were starting to sound warning bells, as it occurred to him they might well have allied with the wrong side in all this.

“Lift your arm.”

He sighed at the doctor’s intractable tone of voice, resignedly beginning the usual routine of stretches and exercises Bones put him through every time he wanted to check the progress of Jim’s healing. It still hurt most of the right side of his body to move like this, but his breath capacity was finally returning to normal, burst stitches no longer meant bleeding through his clothes, and, all things considered, he’d completely lucked out in terms of recovery.

“Good. Now hold it parallel to your shoulder. Drop it before I count to sixty and you’re starting over.”

The clinic was empty but for the two of them. Jim perched on the metal table, swinging his feet idly. The red sun, low in the sky now, shone through the window and seared his bare back and shoulders. He’d grown tan in the weeks of the light cycle.

McCoy poked at the fresh scar on his chest. “Still hurt much?”

“Not as much as my arm. Can I put it down yet?”

The doctor glared at him, then rolled his eye. Jim took that as a yes, relaxing with a huff of relief while McCoy snapped off his medical gloves and moved to drop down into his own chair. He propped his feet up on a nearby box of clean bandages.

It had been a long day, for both of them. Jim had spent most of it keeping order in Cheapside, quelling fights born of tension that were liable to break out every half-hour. Between that and the ongoing mercenary interrogations, the doctor had found himself with a longer line of bruised and battered patients than ever. Many of them didn’t have a spare credit to their name, so an impromptu bartering system had been established. Half of the space in the clinic was now taken up by cans of old food, bottles of stale but fresh water, half-decent items of clothing, and novelty items.

“Looks like you took a good haul.”

“I did indeed.” The doctor reached for a dented little metal case he’d placed on a shelf behind him. “Someone gave me these.” He clicked it open, revealing a small stack of hand-rolled cigarettes.

Jim raised his eyebrows. “And what exactly do they have in them?”

“No idea. Want to find out?” Half grinning, McCoy took one out for himself and held a second out in offering.

Jim snorted. “This your sound medical advice? Smoke some mystery alien drug together and cross our fingers my lung holds up?”

“No, this is my ‘I haven’t had a drink in four hours and I’ll take any port in a storm’ advice. Take it or leave it.”

“You’re a terrible fucking doctor. No wonder you were fired.” Shaking his head, he took the cigarette and raised it briefly to his nose. It smelled of something spicy. McCoy struck a match and Jim leaned forward to accept the light, hesitating only a moment more before bringing it to his mouth and inhaling.

It had been years since he’d smoked anything stronger than tobacco, so the more than mild head-rush he got was a pleasant surprise. He held the smoke for a count of ten, then blew out in a stream towards the ceiling.

Lounging back in his chair, McCoy lazily mouthed a smoke ring. “Galaxy’s going to shit around us - this corner of it in particular. Anyone with an ounce of sense should be getting drunk, drugged or fucked right now. And since you’re not at all my type, this is probably our best alternative.”

Jim laughed in surprise. “Nice to see your optimism hasn’t suffered any.”

“Hey, I’m as optimistic as the next cripple living in the middle of a warzone.”

“God, you’re melodramatic.” Grinning, he took another drag from his cigarette. His muscles were loosening under the soft persuasion of the drug, the usual ache in his chest fading until it was barely noticeable. “Did you give Yota those three options, then? Drink, drugs, or -”

“You must be joking. The woman sleeps with a knife strapped to her thigh. I wouldn’t dare.”

It seemed like the funniest thing Jim had heard in a long time. He tipped his head back in utter amusement, while McCoy watched him with an exasperated scowl.

“No, but can you imagine the look on her face? That would be amazing.”

“That would be suicide.”

“Never know. Might get the answer you want.”

“I wish you’d stop doing that,” the doctor grumbled, exhaling a stream of smoke through his nose.

“Doing what?”

“Acting like she’d want anything to do with a... a scar-faced old drunk.” He looked embarrassed as soon as he finished speaking, scratching at the back of his head and fiddling with the strap of his eyepatch.

Jim sobered a little. In all honesty, he didn’t think Nyota particularly cared about any of those things. She certainly hadn’t spared _him_ a second look ever since McCoy had taken a shot for her, despite the months of semi-relationship they’d shared before that.

He didn’t bother saying as much, settling instead for shrugging. “You never actually saw how much alcohol that woman can put away, did you? Personally, Bones, I think you’ve got a way to go before you call yourself a decent drunk in her presence.”

Seemingly despite himself, McCoy snorted laughter. “Nice try, kid.”

They smoked in companionable silence for a while. Jim finished his and stubbed it out on the table he was sitting on, ignoring the glare the other shot him.

“Anyway,” the doctor said suddenly, spurred to annoyance. “You’re one to talk. Dancing around the goddamn Vulcan like you’re waiting to ask him to prom...”

Jim gaped in bemusement. “What? Where did you get that idea?”

“Oh, let’s not do the teenage denial thing. There aren’t enough hours in this month-long day.”

“I’m not in denial, I’m just confused. Spock’s... _Spock_.”

“I didn’t say I understood the appeal.”

Jim half laughed, somewhat incredulously. “Look, call me boring, but the next time I want to get laid I’ll find a good old-fashioned Terran girl - or guy, whatever. But it won’t be _Spock_.”

The doctor looked genuinely surprised, blinking for a few seconds. Then he took a last drag of his cigarette, expression turned calculating as he breathed out a cloud of smoke. “Ah, sorry. Forgot you were a xenophobic little shit.”

Annoyance flared in Jim. “Just because I don’t want to make out with the psychic alien who could rip open my mind - whether he _wanted to or not_ , remember - doesn’t make me xenophobic. It makes me fucking normal.”

In fact, it was something that had begun to occupy his thoughts fairly often, of late. Not in this particular context, granted, but with Spock being forced to use his abilities more and more often on Pike and any other prisoner Vek wanted ‘interrogating’, it was beginning to really drive home just how dangerous the Vulcan could be. Contact with him, or lack thereof, had suddenly become something Jim was actively aware of. They’d never touched skin-to-skin, even accidentally, and he’d started to obsess somewhat over what would happen if that changed.

McCoy seemed to relent somewhat in the face of that argument. He stood up with a full-body stretch. “Well, in any case, I think that’s enough gossip and girl-talk for the time being. I’d rather not end the day braiding your hair, if it’s all the same to you.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’d been another ‘strategy meeting’ held in one of the halls of Vek’s fortress, which had consisted of little but an enthused discussion of the different agonising ways in which the rebel gang members would be made to regret their uprising once caught. A Flaxian lieutenant had addressed the gathered mercenaries seemingly with the sole intent of stirring up their hatred, using violent words and righteous anger to whip them into a frenzy.

Jim and Spock had stood near the back, watching with a more clinical interest. It was difficult to summon that kind of passion when you weren’t particularly invested in the welfare of either side.

After it was over they’d intended to head back out, but Hasar had approached them before they could leave.

“Vek wants to see you.”

The Bajoran slave still hadn’t really forgiven either of them for the forced mind-meld incident and made no secret of his animosity, so it was an uncomfortably tense walk as they followed him up to Vek’s personal rooms. Nyota was absent, taking her sleep shift, so it was just the two of them.

Reaching the door, Hasar announced their presence with a quiet knock. Then he opened it for them but didn’t enter, allowing Jim and Spock to step inside and closing the door behind them.

Vek was sat at his desk, typing something into his computer. He didn’t bother looking up or addressing them. Irritation ticked at Jim as they waited in silence for the Ferengi to speak.

When he finally did, they wished he hadn’t.

”I’m calling in your bargaining chip for you.”

Jim blinked. “What?”

The Ferengi made an impatient, grabby gesture with his hand. “I want the red matter. Time to pay up, boys.”

Dread settled over Jim, and next to him he felt Spock go tense. He had to resist the urge to glance helplessly at the Vulcan.

“Why, what are you going to do with it?” he asked instead, striving for mild curiosity.

“What the hell do you think? I’m going to put an end to this damn uprising.”

Spock tipped his head doubtfully. “You cannot possibly think that a wise course of action. Red matter has the power to destroy Sif Alpha in entirety. It would be impossible to wield effectively against a specific group of individuals.”

“I didn’t ask for any opinions,” Vek snapped, pointed teeth bared in irritation.

“Then it is fortunate I’m offering fact.”

Jim held out his arms in disbelief. “He’s right. We only offered it to you with the understanding you’d use it... _out there_ somewhere, not be stupid enough to throw it around on a planet we still live on!”

“Excuse me?” The Ferengi stood up with a snarl. “Watch your stupid mouth, Kirk, before you say something you regret.”

Jim bit back the response that jumped to mind.

“Anyway. If this Terran kid is even half the genius you say he is, he should be smart enough to know he has no way of matching that kind of firepower. Problem solved.”

“A bluff,” Spock surmised. “Show him your hand and hope he is sufficiently intimidated to admit defeat. Surely I do not have to point out the flaw in that logic.”

“What now?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “He’s also smart enough to realise you could never actually use it, not without killing everyone in this system. It’s a pointless threat. Look, forget the red matter, you’d be better off trying -”

“You’re not paid to give me advise, you’re paid to do what I tell you,” Vek spat, limping forward until he could shove his lobed, wrinkled face into Jim’s. “So stop arguing with me and go get me my red matter.”

Jim wondered what it would feel like to punch him.

Common sense held him back. He and Spock might easily be able to take the feeble old xeno, but the dozens of mercs outside the room were another story. His eyes flicked to the Vulcan, unsurprised to note a similar look of frustration.

Forcing a nonchalant shrug, he took a step back. “Alright, but don’t say we didn’t warn you. Give us a few hours; you’ll get your red matter.”

Spock moved to open the door for him, but both of them stopped when they came face to face with two Cardassians on the other side, who’d obviously been waiting for them.

“Take all the time you want,” Vek offered. “Corbin and Dukat can go with you, make sure nothing unfortunate happens on the way.”

Slowly, Jim turned to look back at him. The Ferengi cocked his bulbous head, all innocence.

“Wouldn’t want it to go missing, or fall into the wrong hands, would we?”

So he knew, then. Jim let his expression go cold, realising there was little point to further pretence. “You can’t expect us to hand you a bomb and _hope_ you won’t kill us all.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

That was when he felt the gun pressed into the small of his back, one of the Cardassians looming up behind him. He froze, wondering frantically if he could move fast enough to get his own weapon out before being shot. It didn’t seem likely.

His eyes flicked across to see Spock in a similar position. The Cardassian named Dukat was carefully pulling the disruptor from Spock’s belt, obviously wary of touching skin. They must have been warned what could happen. Corbin had no such worries, and wasn’t exactly gentle in patting Jim down and snatching weapons from him.

And just like that they were defenceless.

Vek regarded them with satisfaction. “Knowing what a sneaky little bastard you think yourself, Kirk, I assume you hid your prize somewhere. What, you thought I didn’t realise?”

Jim glared uselessly.

“I don’t blame you, really, but I’m afraid I don’t have time for games anymore. This place is out of control. Needs to be brought back to heel.”

The Cardassian jabbed the gun into his spine, turning him round and forcing him towards the door.

“Oh, and Kirk? My boys here get the slightest feeling you’re playing them and they’re going to shoot the Vulcan. He’s served his purpose.”

Jim seethed silently as they were marched out, trying not to think about what would happen when everyone involved realised they didn’t actually _know_ where the red matter was.

 

* * *

 

 

They walked down the street that had formerly been teeming with club-goers. Avatar was still officially open, but it was obvious that business was suffering. The whole area felt subdued and too quiet. Those few people who were present took one look at the guns and soon ducked inside any building that would have them.

Spock wondered if Jim was leading them in any particular direction, and exactly how long he planned to keep up the charade of knowing where he was going. He could not foresee things ending well, once the Cardassians realised that they could not betray the location of the red matter even if they wanted to.

Had he been alone, Spock might have considered taking his chances in a fight. He thought he stood a fair chance of besting at least one opponent, even armed. The problem was in neutralising both of them quickly enough that neither he nor Jim was shot in the attempt.

But then, Vek’s threat had been specifically directed at _him_ , Spock realised, not Jim.

He thought for a second. They must think only Jim knew where the red matter had been hidden, which meant they’d be reluctant to hurt or incapacitate him against Vek’s orders. Which, in turn, meant they’d hesitate.

The gun was pressed into his back, so Spock knew exactly where it would be when he turned. There was no opportunity to warn Jim; he could only hope the Terran would be quick enough to react. He began to walk slightly slower.

Dukat gave him a shove forward, and that was the moment.

Spock whirled round, smacking the gun aside with the flat of his hand. It fired, but the beam went wide. His head snapped forward, cracking hard into the Cardassian’s mouth. While the man reeled, Spock used the split second of grace to grasp the weapon. There was no time to wrench it out of the other’s grip, so he simply forced his hands over the Cardassian’s and took aim like that.

It had happened so fast that Jim and Corbin had barely turned round to see what the scuffle was. Blue eyes widened in an instant, and Jim needed no instruction to drop down out of the line of fire.

Dukat was already struggling to free himself, so the beam only hit the other mercenary in the shoulder, but it successfully knocked him off balance. Combined with Jim promptly tackling him about the knees, it was enough to send him crashing to the ground, gun clattering away in front of him.

A blow came down hard on the back of Spock’s head. He staggered forward, but held his grip as tightly as possible on the gun, refusing to let it turn on either himself or Jim. Another punch landed low on his back, then his ribs, bruisingly powerful as the Cardassian grew desperate to extract himself.

With a surge of vicious strength, Spock raised Dukat’s arm above his head and brought it down hard across his shoulder.

The crunch was horrendous as bone snapped and sockets dislodged. The Cardassian howled in agony, dropping the gun as his fingers spasmed open. Not finished yet, Spock gripped his wrist and twisted as he turned round, easily forcing the man to his knees with a wrench of the broken limb. It felt like a mercy when a short, sharp jab to the temple left him slumping sideways, unconscious.

He turned to help Jim, but it was quickly apparent that the Terran needed no such aid.

He was perched atop the Cardassian’s chest, knee digging spitefully into the wound in his shoulder. One hand clenched tightly in the mercenary’s collar while the other rained down punches. His knuckles were bloody. Corbin was also unconscious, though the Terran didn’t seem to realise yet.

“Jim. Enough.”

“I took shift with this bastard last week,” Jim snarled, delivering a vengeful kick as he climbed to his feet. “I bought him a fucking drink! And he was just going to - what - shoot me in the back when Vek gave the word?!”

Spock couldn’t think of anything to say to that. The men and women of Alpha were mercenary by name and nature both, it seemed.

Jim might have gone on ranting, but another group of people stepped into the street at that moment, giving everyone pause. Spock looked up at them, alarmed to realise they were yet more of Vek’s mercenaries, no doubt out on patrol of the colony. He saw them glance down at the two incapacitated Cardassians, wasting no time in assessing the situation with undeniable accuracy.

Jim made a dive for one of the discarded guns.

They were instantaneous in shooting at him in response.

He scrambled backwards, unable to reach the weapon as lethal bolts of energy peppered the spot where he’d been. Spock grabbed his shirt and hauled him upright, dragging him along as he began to move.

“Run.”

They sprinted for cover, ducking into the alleyway beside one of the closed felicium dens. A disruptor beam hit the wooden door frame as they passed and set it on fire, shouts rising as the mercenaries gave chase. They flew down the narrow passage, Jim overturning any object they passed to leave a trail of hurdles in their wake. Shots fired wild, bouncing over their heads.

The alleyway led out into the bazaar and a crowd of people. They threw themselves into it, ignoring the ripple of alarm that visibly spread around them as people noticed the guns. Spock forged ahead, shouldering aside those who were too slow to move, and Jim followed closely. Behind them, they could hear yelps of fright as mercenaries brandished their weapons in an attempt to clear the way. Given a few more seconds’ lead, Spock darted into the maze of stalls, seeking cover.

Then he realised that Jim was no longer running directly beside him.

He’d fallen behind, and was obviously labouring to breathe. Barely recovered from his recent injury, it was clear he could not maintain the pace. Spock grabbed his arm, pulling him along forcefully. They passed out of the more populated area of the bazaar, into the space where most of the stalls had been abandoned with the recent warfare. Jim was a weight dragging him back, and Spock knew that if he stayed with the Terran like this, there was no chance of success in outrunning the mercenaries.

He glanced back over his shoulder. While he could hear them close behind, he couldn’t see them through the maze of wooden stalls and draped shelters.

He slid to a stop, and Jim slammed right into him. He couldn’t seem to summon the breath to ask what Spock was doing, and was compliant as he was dragged over to one of the empty shop stalls. Spock lifted up the tarp covering it, pushed Jim inside, and followed quickly after him. He pulled the material cover down behind them, but realised immediately that the bright sunlight shone too easily through it. Their silhouettes would be visible to anyone looking.

Jim was already bent double, hands braced on his thighs as he tried to breathe. None too gently, Spock shoved him to the ground. The Terran grunted in pain, hand clasping the right side of his body, but Spock didn’t have time to worry about what damage was being done. He was too busy trying to save them.

The stall had a hollow niche beneath its counter, probably where it’s former owner had kept lockboxes and other valuables. Spock grasped Jim’s shoulder and all but hurled him into the space, ignoring the wheezed protests. Lying on his side, knees bent at an awkward angle, he just about fit. Spock lowered himself as well and shuffled in after him, his back to the Terran.

They lay frozen, their eyes pinned to the tarp fluttering above them. But Jim still couldn’t catch his breath; sharp, hot gusts of air came fast against the back of Spock’s neck. He winced slightly, ducking his head forward for distance. Sharp little stones stabbed into his shoulder and hip.

It didn’t take long before they heard running footsteps coming closer.

Spock was hoping they’d move right past, but of course that would be far too fortuitous. They stopped nearly right beside them. From the sound of things, however, only two had followed them this far.

“Where now?” 

This close, it seemed impossible that they wouldn’t hear Jim’s ragged breathing. Spock pushed back against him, desperately willing him to be quiet. The Terran’s mouth was almost pressed into the fabric of his shirt in an attempt to muffle the sound.

“They have to be here somewhere. I _saw_ them come this way!”

“You wouldn’t see a fist if it smacked you in the eye.” There was a groan of frustration, then without warning the tarp around the stall was snatched upwards as the mercenary glanced inside.

Spock held statue still, and Jim stopped breathing altogether.

Miraculously, neither of their pursuers bothered to look too closely at the bottom of the stall, nor the cubbyhole they’d managed to squeeze into. The material dropped back into place, and they heard them move away a few paces.

“Keep checking this place, I’m going to go back and see if there’s any turn-offs they could have taken. Really don’t want to tell the boss they got away.”

“It’s Vulcans, man. They’re _weird_. He was probably reading our thoughts the whole time - no wonder we couldn’t catch them.”

“...Sometimes I forget how stupid you are.”

“I’m just saying!”

Footsteps trudged away, and they listened for a long time as one of the mercenaries opened up the nearby stalls, searching intently and oblivious to how close he’d been to success. Gradually, Jim got himself back under control. His breathing evened out, and Spock sensed him relax a little as they lay waiting. In the confined space, Spock could smell the blood and sweat that covered the other man.

When enough time had elapsed, and they were quite certain they could no longer hear the sounds of searching, Spock let out a slow sigh of relief. He started to shift forward, but Jim’s fingers curled in his sleeve and he hesitated, surprised that the human wished to prologue such closeness beyond necessity.

“Let’s just take a moment before we go wandering out in the open with targets on our backs. What exactly is the game plan here?”

Spock opened his mouth to respond, only to find he had precisely no idea. “I believe it is safe to say we have burned all bridges with Vek. Should we encounter him or his men again, the most likely outcome is that we will be tortured for the location of the red matter and ultimately executed without ceremony.”

Jim snorted softly, bringing up goosebumps on the back of his neck.

“Fantastic. We managed to make ourselves wanted outlaws even in the land of free criminals.”

They lay contemplating their options for a minute or so. Jim moved restlessly, his boot scraping over dirt and his knee pressing into the back of Spock’s thigh. The point of contact was distracting, but the Terran made no effort to retract it. Spock considered warning him to be careful. He had no particular wish to steal whatever thoughts Jim was entertaining right now, and such proximity was only inviting accidents.

But the words of caution fell silent in his mouth.

“We obviously can’t go back to the storage field,” Jim murmured. “He knows where we were staying, he’ll have it watched. They’ve seen us at the clinic, too, so that’s out.”

“Then where? Unless you intend for us to live out the rest of our lives beneath this stall, we need to locate adequate shelter.”

“Relax. There’ll be places in this colony we can hole up for a while. We just have to find them.”

“What makes you certain?”

“There are always places to hide.”

Spock remembered what he had learned about Jim’s history during their journey to Alpha. He supposed this could not be the first time the Terran had fled pursuit on an alien world. Perhaps it was an advantage. Old instincts would prove valuable now that the situation had turned familiar.

“Besides,” Jim added, “the Russian kid and his guard dog managed to disappear pretty damn successfully. Why can’t we?”

“True. Though we should be careful not to inadvertently locate them through our own attempts. I suspect it would not be a welcome encounter.”

Jim huffed laughter, the sound breezing intimately down the length of Spock’s spine. Immediately he tensed, shocked by the sensation.

It sent a surge of something like adrenaline rushing through him; a short, sharp twinge low in his abdomen. Warmth gathered in him, and he was suddenly intensely aware of the enclosed space and the human trapped behind him. He could feel the taught press of Jim’s stomach with every indrawn breath. Body heat radiated against the line of his back, and he could almost feel it against the bare nape of his neck, inspiring the conflicting urges to dart away in horror or, possibly, edge closer.

His mind reeled for a second, thrown into chaos by the fleeting thought. Touch had never been a thing he welcomed, let alone desired. In all his experience, such contact only ever meant pain and anger and, more often than not, revulsion on both sides. Touch was unwilling violation - always, inevitably, and irreversibly.

That Jim may have, for the moment, forgotten all that was no excuse for Spock to lose self-control.

He closed his eyes, trying to regain some equilibrium. A purely base response to physical closeness was only to be expected, he reasoned. The mind may well be aware of consequences, but a touch-starved body would react regardless when presented with temptation. That Jim was the cause of that reaction was both incidental and... unfortunate.

Oblivious to the problems he was causing, the Terran whispered, “So you think it’s safe yet?”

With effort, Spock dragged his mind from the tangent on which it had embarked, taking a moment to listen intently. “I believe so. Though we still have no immediate destination.”

Jim sighed. “Alright. Aright, let’s think about this. What about Scotty?”

“What about him?”

“I don’t think they’ve ever seen us with him, right? We go hide out with him for a while, at the ship yard. He can go tell McCoy and find - Oh shit. Yota.”

Spock’s eyes widened as he immediately comprehended the reason for the other’s distress. Without further discussion they scrambled hurriedly from their prone position, knowing with certainty that, in their absence, she would be Vek’s next target.


	16. Chapter 16

**Stardate 2255.277.**

**Sif System.**

**Sif Alpha.**

 

Flattened out on his stomach, Jim inched to the very precipice of the storage container, keeping his head low as he peered down over the edge. Next to him, Spock did the same. It was a difficult thing, trying to stay subtle and unseen in the blazing sunlight of Alpha. They’d come the long way round the back of the storage field, climbing up onto the top of the containers via the messy network of ladders and bridges that draped across the area. Then they’d crept and crawled their way to a spot where they could look down at the metal box that had served as home for these past weeks.

“There’s no one down there.”

“I can see that.”

Jim didn’t know what else he’d expected. A gathering of shady looking mercs hanging conspicuously around the storage container, maybe? Too obvious, he supposed, but they had to have eyes on the place somewhere. He scanned the narrow streets again, but they were empty.

“You think they’re in the other containers? Watching?”

“It is possible. Likely, in fact. The easiest way to recapture us is to wait for our return to a supposed place of safety.”

And yet here they were, too close for comfort.

Because Yota was in there.

Jim swore under his breath, rubbing his forehead as he tried to think. They had no weapons, no defences, no plan. Going down there like this was a death sentence; not going wasn’t an option.

“Jim.”

He raised his head, gaze going immediately to the storage container. Someone was climbing out.

“Is that…?”

“She appears to be unharmed.”

Below them, Nyota slithered down the ladder with hasty movements. She had a bag slung over her shoulder and her hair was in disarray, tussled around the back of her head. As they watched in vague bemusement, she started walking quickly, glancing back over her shoulder as she went.

Jim clapped his hand on Spock’s shoulder. “Come on. Before we lose her.”

Keeping low, they darted across the tops of the containers, scrambling back down to ground level the same way they’d come up. No one intercepted them, despite Jim’s full expectation that they were about to be ambushed at any moment. He couldn’t believe they seemed to have gotten away with their little surveillance attempt.

Nyota had already left the storage field by the time they climbed down. They hurried in the direction she’d been heading, emerging into one of the cramped streets of Cheapside. It was slightly more populated here, which served to ease Jim’s nerves somewhat. It was always easier to hide in a crowd.

They saw her up ahead. Jim quickened his pace, shouldering past people with his head ducked. She was nearing an alleyway between two buildings which looking like it could provide decent concealment, so he angled to intercept her there.

He reached out to grab her arm, intending to pull her with him.

Almost before he knew what had happened, she’d turned and slammed her forearm into his chest, rushing him backwards until his back hit the wall of the alley. Her knife blade pressed hard against his throat and furious breath gusted his cheek. Spock hesitated, clearly unsure whether to intervene.

For a second they all froze like that. Then she blinked, reason and recognition visibly reasserting themselves. She shoved away from him, shoulders hunched.

“What the hell? Are you okay?”

She was splashed in blood, he realised. There was a smear she’d tried to wipe away on her cheek, and it had obviously spurted across the front of her, fresh enough that he could smell the copper-sweet stench. Her lower lip was split, and a darkening bruise spread down across her jawline. As he stared in alarm, she pulled her jacket tight around herself to hide the worst.

“It’s not all mine.”

“What happened?”

She ran her fingers through her hair, managing only to spike it up all the more. “I don’t even know! They were just… _there_ when I woke up, holding guns on me.” Her wide eyes found his face. “Jim, I _knew_ those guys! What’s going on?”

He exchanged a reluctant glance with Spock. “Vek and I… may have had a disagreement.”

“It concerned the red matter. We believe he wishes to try using it here on the colony.”

“And when we told him how _criminally stupid_ that is, things got a little out of hand.” He paused to scan the street again, checking that no mercs were in sight before addressing Nyota again. “Are you… okay? How’d you get out?”

Something in her face hardened. Blood-splashed and sharp-eyed, she looked suddenly unfamiliar to him.

“They said they were going to ‘put me in my place.’ Put their guns down to do it. Shouldn’t have.”

Jim felt the hairs stand up on his neck. Unbidden, he remembered McCoy’s comment about her sleeping with a knife strapped to her thigh, and wished nastily he’d been there to see the look of surprise on the mercs’ faces. His gaze flicked over her, assessing what other damage had been done. She was favouring one side, and the sleeve of her shirt had been ripped at the seam. The anger that had already been mounting in him seemed to catch fire, burning in his throat.

“Did they…?”

She dismissed the question without answering, turning to squint out into the street. “So what’s the plan? I was going to try and get to the clinic, find Leonard.”

“I’ll go,” Jim offered. “You and Spock get to the shipyard. Tell Scotty we’ll be staying with him, at least for tonight.”

The Vulcan opened his mouth to protest, but Jim gave him a pointed look. “I’ll be faster on my own, and probably less conspicuous than the three of us trying to sneak around.”

“Very well. But if you and Doctor McCoy have not joined us in one hour, I assure you I will not hesitate to return.”

Jim blinked, a little taken aback by the vehemence. Spock seemed to catch himself as well, straightening with a certain stiffness and glancing aside.

“Sounds like a plan, then,” he quipped.

Nyota just sneered at them, turning and walking out into the crowd.

 

* * *

 

 

Scotty was working repairs on an Andorian ship for the next two days. Its owners had left him the run of it while they did business in Alpha. He usually worked alongside other engineers, but a large number of them had been conscripted into the Klingon forces, and most others seemed to have been absorbed into one or other of the warring factions. As one of the few remaining neutral ship workers, the Scotsman was suddenly making himself a small fortune.

By the time Jim arrived with McCoy in tow, Spock and Nyota had already informed him of the latest developments. He ushered them inside with frantic gestures, sealing the ship doors behind them as though he expected a horde of raving mercenaries to be only seconds away.

“Tell me you didn’t bring that bomb anywhere near this ship!”

Jim held up his hands. “Relax. Presumably, it’s still where Bones hid it. Didn’t want to move it with everyone and their mothers out for our blood.”

They stepped past him, moving inside to where the others had already started to set up for the night. Jim had allowed just enough time for the doctor to gather up spare clothes, bottles of fresh water, and a data PADD, and shove it all haphazardly into a bag. Even combined with whatever Nyota had salvaged, it wasn’t much between the four of them.

The ship had a replicator installed, so they wasted no time in powering it up and indulging in a rare excess of food. They took their stash to the rec room, while Scotty trailed behind them gloomily.

“Computer will have logged that,” he complained. “How am I going to explain an impromptu feast for ten?”

“Tell them you had to run a systems check,” Jim said through a mouthful of something like chicken. “You were just being thorough.”

“I’m supposed to be working on the bloody propulsion engines!”

They settled themselves in one of the seating areas, laying various bowls of food out on the table between them. They hadn’t turned on all of the ship systems, so the room was illuminated only by dim emergency lighting, giving it a close, intimate feel.

“You may as well sit down and eat with us.”

Scotty reluctantly lowered himself onto one of the couches, looking none too happy. “I had an evening all planned out before you lot descended on me.”

McCoy scowled. “Oh not the robot whore again.”

“Hey! I’d thank you to show some respect. She’s a top of the line Synner, and it’s a minor miracle she hasn’t been confiscated by Klingon brutes yet.”

“Good god, man, she’s a _machine_ with well-placed breast implants! That doesn’t bother you?”

Jim snorted. “Bones, that’s his perfect woman. He can do her repairs after they’ve finished.”

Scotty just looked bemused. “Well how else do you think I pay her?”

Laughter and exasperation rippled across their small group as they settled down to the meal.

“We should replicate enough food to take with us,” Spock commented at length. “Since our own stockpile must now be abandoned.”

Jim watched him twirl noodles neatly round a fork, thinking about where exactly they might be taking that food. They couldn’t stay with Scotty indefinitely, and the mazes and burrows of Cheapside, which would have been his best bet, were already occupied by the rebel gang members.

Nyota bit into a piece of fruit. “Shouldn’t we be talking about what we’re going to do with the red matter?”

“I’ve kept it safe,” McCoy grumbled. “Don’t worry, no one’s going to find it any time soon.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” She tucked one leg under herself on the couch, starting to lean to one side but changing her mind with a wince, touching her side. “So the deal with Vek fell through, but now what? It’s the only valuable thing we own anymore. Can’t we use it?”

“Nyota is correct. We should consider offering it to another faction – perhaps in return for a more equal alliance, this time.”

“I could put you in touch with Chekov,” Scotty offered. “God knows the lad would give an arm and leg to get hold of some of that stuff.”

“This is the Terran adolescent who was prepared to murder Jim and Nyota.”

“Well… aye. But under more _amiable_ circumstances, he’d make one hell of a friend with the way things are at the minute.”

Jim considered the idea. He couldn’t deny it was a tempting option. With the way things were progressing in Alpha lately, it was starting to look like the Russian’s unscrupulous rebels would win out against Vek’s mercenaries. He could almost see how it would play out: Chekov’s men were assassins, populating the entire colony. They were invisible until they struck the killing blow, vicious and decisive. Short of slaughtering most of the population outright, there was no way the mercenaries could combat that. Even if it took time to depose Vek, Jim figured that was now the eventual outcome. Alpha would pass into new rulership, and they had the chance to be on the winning side.

But he supposed that wasn’t saying much, in and of itself, when it only meant they’d be back in the same position they’d been stuck in for the last month: beholden to the next lord of Alpha and his every whim. Bringing the red matter to the table hadn’t purchased them any freedoms last time; why would it be different now?

“So you actually know where he’s disappeared to, then?”

“Not exactly, but I could get a message –”

“No.”

They looked at him in surprise. In all honesty, even Jim hadn’t expected the force of his own sudden conviction, but as soon as he’d spoken it was as if the sentiment crystallised for him. Making a mistake the first time round could maybe be excused; taking the exact same missteps again only made the consequences deserved.

“ _No_? Care to elaborate at all, or…?”

Jim set his plate of food down on the table, leaning forward to address them. “Look. You want to end up back here in another few months, when our teenage boss tries to steal our only leverage from us, or uses Spock until he passes out again, or nearly kills us through spite or incompetence?!”

They all exchanged discomforted glances.

“I assume you have an alternative suggestion?” Spock prompted.

“Only that we wait,” he admitted. “I’ll be honest: my money’s on the kid in this fight between him and Vek. But that doesn’t mean I want to be _his_ lackey instead.”

“And your solution to this?”

“We wait until we can turn up as equals.”

Immediately, the doctor let out a scoff. “You’re not serious. Equals? We’re never going to be _equal_ to these people, kid, not by their standards.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, let’s see. Between us we have exactly no credit, no possessions, and no friends beyond the other losers in this room.”

“Wow, say what you _really_ mean, Bones.”

“Alright, I will: I say we go begging hat-in-hand to whoever will take us. As it is we’re on just about everyone’s hit-list and we don’t have the resources to go this alone!”

“But what if we _did_?” Jim stood up, filled with nervous energy as the idea expanded in his head. “Credit, weapons, and manpower. That’s what it comes down to.”

“So?”

He thought for a moment, pacing between the couches. Spock and Scotty moved their feet for him, while McCoy tried to trip him.

“Credit first. That gets us the rest.”

“We only have the few credit chips I managed to grab from the storage container,” Nyota pointed out tiredly. “And most of those are tapped out.”

“When has that ever stopped us?” he demanded. “I know we’ve been playing by the rules of this place so far, but that can end now. Alpha’s in chaos. It’s up for the taking.”

“You are talking about stealing credit,” Spock observed. “As you did back on Terra.”

“Well why not? We’re good at it, and if you haven’t noticed, everyone has bigger things on their mind right now than some small time thieves.”

Nyota looked like she was considering the idea, but no one else seemed particularly convinced. McCoy looked about as impressed as if Jim had suggested they join the Klingon army.

“They might not be looking for your average pickpocket, but all eyes are sure as hell on _us_ , specifically, thanks to you.”

“Bones –”

“No, enough. When are you going to learn that sometimes you just have to… _give up_? You put your head down, you stop trying to fight the goddamn world, and you _survive_.”

The outburst hung in the air.

Jim looked around at each of them. Eyes flickered down or away, avoiding him, and for the first time he wondered if he’d pushed them too far. Since somewhere back on Delta Vega he’d taken for granted the fact that they’d follow him, agree with him. They’d seemed content to do so, for the most part, and Jim had slid quite comfortably into the leadership role - even to his own surprise.

Now, seeing their reluctance, he found it hurt.

“I can get us back from this,” he insisted, low and earnest.

No one said anything.

Eventually, perhaps taking pity, Scotty held up his hands. “Alright, I’m thinking this is a conversation to be finished in the morning. Come on, eat up and I’ll show you the personal quarters.”

Jim slumped back down into his seat, no longer particularly hungry.

 

* * *

 

 

They woke to find the clinic was on fire.

Smoke billowed up into the orange sky, thick and black with chemicals, emanating from the uneven rooftops of Cheapside. No one needed to go investigate what was burning. It was obvious what had been done. They stood watching from one of the top decks of the ship. It felt like too much effort to speak; too pointless. The sight was like a gut-punch, and left them silent.

The message was clear: they, and everyone associated with them, were to be purged from the colony.

McCoy stood apart from them, hunched and defensive, his one bright eye fixed balefully on the distant flames. Jim wasn’t sure exactly what he was thinking, but he wondered if the doctor was still feeling quite as passive about things as he had been the night before. Not only had his hard-won business just gone up in smoke, but also all the expensive medical supplies they’d purchased from the Andorians and the stash of food, clothing and valuables he’d recently bartered for.

The very last of their resources were gone.

Nor could they stay any longer with Scotty, at least if they were to keep him safely distanced from their association. They packed up what they could, replicating preservable food and wrapping it carefully inside the bag Nyota had brought. Scotty didn’t protest this time, watching with grim concern as they scraped together their meagre possessions. He nodded his goodbye without saying anything, and it was clear to everyone present that he wasn’t at all certain he’d be seeing any of them again.

They stole transport, taking an open-top terrain vehicle from the outskirts of the shipyard and driving out into the desert beyond the colony borders. Vek’s men were too few to guard the perimeter effectively, so they met no resistance. Jim drove and Spock took the passenger seat. Doctor McCoy and Nyota huddled together in the back, his arm round her and her head on his shoulder. No one commented. Warm wind and air-borne sand streamed through the open top of the car, ruffling hair and stinging the skin. They drove straight into the light, Sif Alpha's red sun a violent blur of colour ahead of them, low on the horizon. It would be dark again soon.

An hour passed before Jim began to slow the vehicle. Spock roused himself from contemplation, looking around at their new surroundings. They’d arrived at the foot of a rock formation that rose from the sands, its sheer sides riddled with deep cracks and crevices, some of which might just be big enough to take shelter inside. He supposed it was as good a place as they could hope to find out here.

They sat for a few moments in the desert silence. Then Nyota hopped lightly out of the car, striding around in front of it. She banged on the door panels as she passed, demanding they join her.

Jim had turned the vehicle so that it faced back towards Alpha, the colony no more than a flat grey smear in the distance. As Nyota perched herself cross-legged on the hood, they moved to stand beside her. Spock rested his hands in the small of his back, while Jim and McCoy slumped against the front of the car. The doctor kept looking around, as though not quite able to determine how he’d come to be here.

“Least we won the first skirmish,” Jim said at length, to no one in particular.

Spock raised an eyebrow, unsure how the Terran could possibly have inferred victory from their current situation.

“ _Won_?” McCoy demanded, apparently of the same mind. “What the hell did we _win_ here? Homeless, penniless, all of us nearly murdered.”

“But not _actually_ dead,” Jim amended, looking self-satisfied. “And that’s what he wants. Along with the red matter, which we also still have. Kind of.”

Nyota half-smiled, staring off into the distance. “Suppose he’s right.”

“I’d hate to see what you count as a loss,” the doctor sneered.

“Don’t worry, Bones, I’ll keep you in the manner to which you’ve become accustomed.”

“Oh not this again. We just about got away with our hides, and you really want to go drawing attention to yourself stealing credit?”

“It’s not just a case of ‘wanting’ to, at this point,” Jim said, his voice growing serious. “How long do you think we’re going to survive without putting up some kind of fight? Either we starve out here on our own or Vek realises where we’ve gone and sends out a search.”

He was correct, Spock thought. They could not sever all ties with the colony indefinitely; it simply wasn’t feasible. Furthermore, if they ever did intend to approach the rebels in Alpha, as they had discussed the previous night, then it would be unwise to do so from their present position of weakness.

“Alright, I’m in,” Nyota said suddenly. “Fuck it. What else are we going to do?”

“I am also in agreement.”

For a moment, Jim looked genuinely surprised. Then he smiled, wide and blindingly white.

The doctor glared. “Have you all lost your goddamn minds?! This is suicide!”

“Not if we win.”

“And how the hell are we going to win like this?” He held out his arms as though to indicate their general situation.

“Give me a week and ask me again,” Jim said, voice full of promise.

McCoy made a disgusted sound and waved him off, leaning back against the car engine with crossed arms. Though not at all happy, it was obvious he was outnumbered. Nyota leaned forward and lay a quelling hand on his shoulder.

Standing just slightly apart from the others, Spock turned to look at each of them: these humans who were no longer mere allies of necessity, but perhaps something closer to friends. Jim with his bloodied knuckles; Nyota’s bruised mouth and hard eyes; Doctor McCoy standing hunched and hostile and still somewhat drunk. He could never have anticipated the value he had come to attribute their company, but nevertheless, here at the edges of a warring galaxy, there were few others he would prefer to stand beside.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Stardate 2255.288.**

**Sif System.**

**Sif Alpha.**

 

It took them a week and a half to rebuild two credit scanners.

Without Scotty it wouldn’t have been done at all. He’d risked a trip out to them, bringing with him supplies they hadn’t had time to gather when they’d left. Among other things had been comm units, so Jim had been able to put in an order for parts, explaining to the Scotsman how he’d made the devices the first time round. Scotty had been impressed. Jim might even go so far as to say _enthused_. They’d compared ideas and, unsurprisingly, the engineer had experienced no difficulty in improving the design. In the end he’d made them himself, two neat little palm-sized screens which he’d deposited inside a tin can half-buried beyond the outskirts of Alpha.

Jim and Nyota had gone to collect them, and as soon as they were in hand it was like they’d slipped back into old roles. Hoods low and scarves pulled up over their mouths, they’d walked arm in arm through the streets of the colony, huddled together like a couple in the cold. No one had paid any particular notice.

Jim had wanted to return to the clubs; familiar ground where they’d run a hundred scams before and where the close-packed chaos could always conceal a crime. But before they’d even entered the district, it became obvious the idea wasn’t feasible. Vek seemed to have pulled his men close to home, keeping them tight and defensive around the fortress and his most profitable businesses.

The advantage of that, however, was that it had left much of the rest of the colony unguarded. They’d been able to walk Alpha at their leisure, strolling the backstreets where a few accidental collisions with passers-by had done the trick. A combination of Scotty’s technical skill, and of course the fact that there was less credit security out here than in the Empire, meant that the job was done in a single trip. Even Jim had been surprised at the ease with which they suddenly found step one of his plans complete.

All that was left was… figuring out what came next, he supposed.

 

* * *

 

 

Having passed out of the red light of Sif, heat quickly seeped from the rocks and sand of the desert. The narrow entrance to the cave in which they were staying was draped with a thick sheet of canvas in an attempt to preserve warmth. They’d moved the car as close to the rock face as possible and opened up the hood, hooking up the battery to a string of electric lights which hung haphazardly around the inside of their rocky shelter. It was also attached to a small heater, but they didn’t use that as often for fear of draining the power.

Jim shivered, pulling a blanket tighter around himself and Nyota. They were huddled together in the back seat of the car. He’d come out here alone to take his shift on watch, but it hadn’t been long before she’d joined him, curling up close and comfortable. They didn’t talk much, but the contact was nice.

The click and buzz of insects had grown louder with the onset of darkness; dozens of alien specimens crawling out of the sand and taking to the night air, biting mercilessly if not fended off. They’d seen a few reptilian creatures as well, no bigger than a hand-width and as red as the desert, which would shoot away into cracks in the rock when startled. Bones hated them with a passion, and had taken to throwing small rocks at them if he found them inside the confines of their cave. Occasionally, a low, keening whine would sound out in the distance, making Jim wonder what other animals had been released during colonization. Or, an even more unnerving thought: what lifeforms had existed here before the arrival of Klingons and other xenos.

Nyota shifted her head on his shoulder, soft tufts of her hair tickling the underside of his jaw. “I thought you always ran away from a fight,” she said suddenly, impromptu of nothing.

He frowned, a little confused. “That’s not true.”

“Alright, fine. You like a barfight you know you can win – or at least survive. Hell, you actually seemed to _enjoy_ getting beat to a pulp as long as you knew you’d get through it. But this… Jim, this is different.”

“Funny enough, I _noticed_ that!” he commented cheerily.

She pinched his chest under the blanket, ignoring his squirm of protest. Another few moments of thoughtful silence drifted by, then she asked, “You really think we’ve got a chance? Explain it to me, then. Even with the credit, _how_?”

“I have got… _one_ idea.”

“Better be a good one.”

“Well it’s not gonna be a popular one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She sat up slightly, frowning at him. “How unpopular are we talking, exactly?”

“I’m pretty sure I can convince Spock of the logic in it, but Bones is _not_ gonna be a happy bunny.”

“Why?”

He bit the inside of his lip, hesitating. “Let me think it through a last time. You’ll be the first to know, promise.”

She hummed disapprovingly, but didn’t push the issue. As it happened, she didn’t get the chance.

The canvas over the entrance to their cave twitched aside and Spock stepped through. Jim and Nyota stayed still and quiet, and for a moment the Vulcan didn’t seem to notice them, hidden as they were in their pile of blanket. He looked out past the car, reflective eyes flashing green in the darkness. The wind flicked at the black woollen coat he wore and at the tips of his hair, and the shadow of unchecked stubble stood out against the line of his jaw. Jim didn’t think he looked at all like the uptight bartender they’d met back on Terra. He was something different now. Rougher. Harder. He’d become mercenary, as they all had – though without the Vulcan’s surprisingly cold brutality, Jim didn’t think they’d have made it nearly as far as they had.

He shifted slightly, and Spock’s gaze immediately snapped towards them.

Nyota waggled her fingers in greeting. “You’re early to take watch.”

“I have had my requirement of sleep. I decided I would walk a distance either side of our camp, with the dual purposes of looking for further resources we might utilise, and, of course, approaching threats.”

“Not sure you’re going to find anything more of use out here,” Jim commented dryly, “but we sure are racking up a list of haters, so knock yourself out.”

“Either of you are naturally welcome to join me.”

Jim wrinkled his nose. He’d been awake longer than he cared to be already, and right now nothing sounded less appealing than a freezing cold and fairly pointless trek through the desert. “Thanks, I’m good. But here, take this with you.” He slid the particle gun Scotty had managed to smuggle out to them from his belt, passing it through the window.

“I do not wish to leave you all defenceless.”

“You’re the one playing lone wandered out there - take it. Hey, and if you see anything scuttling about that looks even vaguely edible, shoot it and bring me back dinner. I’m so damn sick of MRE rations.”

Spock levelled a vaguely nonplussed stare back at him. After a few seconds’ silent standoff, he took the weapon with a soft huff of breath. “I’m sure it would bring me great satisfaction, and no inconvenience at all, to hunt and kill fresh food for you, when I myself have been surviving on little more than dehydrated powders for over a week.”

“Spock! It _almost_ sounds as if you’re being disingenuous with me. And there I was thinking Vulcans couldn’t lie.”

“Which is why, on rare occasions, I believe it fortunate I am not entirely Vulcan.”

And with that he was gone, slipping away near soundlessly. Jim grinned after him, thoroughly amused by the exchange. He was about to say as much to Nyota, only to find her already watching him, upper lip curled incredulously.

“What?”

“Leonard’s right, it’s really kind of sickening to watch. You know that feeling when you’ve eaten too much candy, or –”

He elbowed her. “Not this again. Shut up.”

“No but really, that is some hot and heavy _eye contact_ you two have got going on! Do you think he even noticed I was here?”

“Yota –”

“So is that, like, second base for a Vulcan? Maybe a Vulcan with a touch-phobia, I guess. How the hell are you going to get past _that_ , by the way?”

“Will you stop?!”

She rolled her eyes, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh come on, take a joke. No one really cares, you know.”

“And as lovely as that is, I’ll repeat: I’m not sleeping with Spock. I have no _intention_ of sleeping with Spock. I can’t believe this is the second time I’m having this conversation…”

“Why not? God knows you could do worse. Spock’s a hottie, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I hadn’t.”

A predatory smile immediately stretched across her face. “Well now I _know_ you’re lying! You’re totally lying, you’re into him!”

He tossed the blanket off of himself, beginning to crawl out of the car. “I’m trying to plan a war and you and Bones just want to play matchmakers. Brilliant. Thank you for the support.”

Utterly unaffected by his scorn, she sing-songed after him, “You _liiiike_ him!”

He snatched the canvas closed behind him, closing his eyes against the musical sound of her laughter.

 

* * *

 

 

By the same time the next day, Jim’s idea had coalesced into a plan. And it was indeed as controversial a plan as he’d anticipated. But, since no one had any alternatives, he’d gotten his way.

Which was how he and Spock had come to brave a return to Alpha.

Just like before, they’d slipped in unseen, having left the car a good two miles out and walked the rest of the distance to the colony. Hoods low over their eyes, they’d moved silently through the cluttered, twisting streets. Spock noted that some equilibrium seemed to have returned in their absence, at least. The militant mercenary presence around every corner seemed to have lessened. Someone had finally cut down the body which had been strung up for so long. And, as they’d walked through the bazaar, the return of merchants and buyers alike was evident. He could only suppose Chekov’s rebels were also taking time to recuperate, or perhaps plan the next engagement.

They reached their destination, familiarity with Alpha having brought them to the market at the perfect time. The crowd was perhaps a little thinner than usual, but by no means small. They stood together on the sidelines, trying to decide how best to execute their plan of action.

Spock’s critical gaze travelled across the men and women lined up on the platform. Like last time, they consisted of a range of races, positioned for inspection with their hands bound behind their backs. He counted eleven, five of them Terran.

“It will be difficult to do this with any degree of subtlety,” he observed quietly.

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

He slipped forward, pressing through the crowd of bidders. Spock hurried to follow him, alert for anyone watching them too closely, or mercenaries who might be present at the sale. But everyone was too fascinated by the auction. A Bajoran girl was sold and pulled from the platform, quickly replaced by an older male.

Jim ignored the proceedings. He headed for the back of the raised stage and strode straight up to the Orion auctioneer, Spock at his shoulder.

“We want to place a private bid.”

The Orion turned towards them, expression bland and unimpressed. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, his eyes grew wider as he took in the sight of them, recognition obvious.

Quickly, Jim stepped close and spoke in a low, calm voice. “Raise the alarm and there’ll be chaos - mercenaries trampling through your auction, shots fired, might even lose some of your merchandise over there.” He took a credit chip from his pocket, holding it up between two fingers. “On the other hand, we’re paying customers. _Generously_ paying customers.”

It was possible to see the man perform quick calculations. He glanced over his shoulder as though fearful of witnesses, then narrowed his eyes at Jim. “How much are you looking to spend?”

“We can afford three today, and if all goes well we’ll be wanting more some time soon. A lot more.”

“The Deltan will cost more than average-”

“No. We only want the Terrans. They’re former Starfleet, right?”

“Sure are. Latest batch from the front lines. Not gonna swear they’ve all still got twenty digits and four working limbs anymore, but I’m willing to work out a fair price.”

“Sounds good.” Jim paused, then added casually, “Any chance we can talk to them first? Uh, inspect the wares, kind of thing?”

“If you must, but make it quick. Anyone from Vek’s camp notices me dealing with you two and this all goes to shit.” He glanced around suspiciously, then jabbed his thumb towards one of the nearby wooden huts. “Wait in there, I’ll bring them over.”

They stepped inside, finally able to lower their hoods. Jim promptly began to prowl the small space, restless with nervous energy. After the third time he’d circled round the Vulcan in as many minutes, Spock held out his hand to stop him.

“You are experiencing doubts about our current plan?” he asked quietly.

“Aren’t you? We’re _buying humans_. I’ve gotta tell you, this is not where I saw my life heading.”

Spock tipped his head in concession. “All of this is indeed a sharp deviation from the likely course our lives would have taken had Nero not abducted us. However, to address your concerns, if they are based on moral grounds, I must point out to you that these men and women will nevertheless be purchased today. If not by ourselves, then likely by someone who is considerably less concerned with establishing an honest, willing working relationship. It is an objective truth that the opportunity we intend to offer them is considerably more favourable than the vast majority of other options available to them.”

Jim’s wide eyes were fixed on him as he spoke, and he nodded slowly as though allowing himself to be convinced. “Yeah, okay. That’s true. Alright.”

The door opened and the auctioneer reappeared, ushering ahead of him the five Terran slaves. They filed in looking sullen and furious, bound together at the ankles by a length of synthetic rope. The smell of unwashed bodies accompanied them.

“I’m leaving a guard outside the door. Give a shout if anyone gets out of hand. I don’t pay compensation though.”

Then the door slammed shut again, leaving them in a small room with five very angry captive humans.

Jim cleared his throat slightly.

“So. Starfleet, right?”

No one answered.

Spock took the opportunity to study them. Four men and one woman, not one of them older than thirty. They had the hollow cheeks and dull eyes of prisoners who hadn’t been fed quite enough, and the bindings around their wrists had begun to cut into flesh.

“Officers or conscripts?” Jim prompted again.

For a moment it looked as though they’d remain in stubborn silence. Then at last, one of the men raised his head, glaring coldly.

“I’m Lieutenant Yates of the _ISS Prometheus_ and these men and women were indeed conscripted to fight for their Empire. They did so bravely – unlike some.” He cast a sneering look at Jim.

Spock mentally discounted the man as unsuitable for their needs. Not because of his hostility, but because as an officer he would possess a lingering loyalty to Starfleet that would only sabotage their efforts. They simply had to hope such loyalty would be absent in the others.

Jim seemed to be in agreement, promptly directing his attention to the remaining four humans.

“Good. I’ve got a proposition for you guys.” He spoke with more confidence than he’d exhibited mere moments ago. Spock was impressed with his deception skills.

“We don’t need to hear anything from a race-traitor.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Jim snapped at the lieutenant, “but your conscripts here might be more than a little interested, if they have any sense.”

He paused to see if any further interruptions were forthcoming, but when met with only unhappy, curious silence, he went on.

“One way or another, you’re about to be bought at this market today. There’s nothing to be done about that. Starfleet forfeited your freedom for you as soon as they stuck those chips in your arms.”

Heads ducked and glances flicked aside. Spock couldn’t quite determine the cause of their sudden reticence. They looked almost embarrassed.

“So here are your options. You want nothing to do with me and what I have to say: that’s fine. You go back to the block and get snapped up by the highest bidding xeno.”

Spock tried not to be perturbed by the audible scorn layered through Jim’s voice at the mention of xenos; it was obvious he was trying to invoke the conscripts’ own fear and xenophobia. Still, he was a remarkably good actor.

The youngest of the slaves looked upset. “You’d really just stand there and let that happen? You’re from Terra! Why aren’t you helping us?!”

Jim’s expression went cold. “This place isn’t Terra. You should get used to that quickly.”

Spock sympathised with them, somewhat. Adapting to the cutthroat social laws of Sif Alpha required a steep learning curve, and they certainly weren’t starting from a position of advantage.

“We can afford to buy three of you,” Jim continued bluntly. “But there are conditions.”

“ _Conditions_?” blurted another one of the men. “Like it’s a fucking privilege?!”

“Well that’s a judgement call, I suppose – but I’m offering you the chance to kill xenos, rather than scrub floors for them.”

Wary faces met that statement. Some of them shot uncertain glances towards Spock, perhaps unsure what to make of his presence given the mission Jim had just outlined.

“Not that one,” he added quickly, looking vaguely apologetic at the Vulcan. “All you need to know is this: there’s a war in Alpha. The guy on the other side is the xeno merc leader responsible for arming and supplying the Klingons attacking the Empire right now - probably even the Klingons that destroyed your ship and brought you back here. Either you work for him or you work for me.”

That was undoubtedly an over-simplification of the matter, but they did not need to know that at this juncture. Had Spock been the one to make them this offer, he would have outlined the facts as accurately as he was able, trusting that logic and self-preservation would sway them. But, watching their reaction to Jim’s words, he realised now that that would have indeed been the wrong approach. Terrans were emotive creatures at base, and Jim was manipulating them masterfully.

“Working for you doing… what, exactly?”

“Like I said, we’re going into a fight. I need people who can aim and shoot, and do it without an argument.”

“But you’re still _buying_ us,” the young conscript spoke up again. “You still want us to be _slaves_ , right? Just to you, instead of him.”

Jim glanced back at Spock briefly, as though for one final confirmation. The Vulcan nodded fractionally. The deal they intended was a good one, for everyone involved.

“I’m offering indenture, instead,” Jim explained. “Give me a year, and then you’re free to go, no hard feelings.”

“A _year_?”

“Better than life. And let’s just be clear, here. I mean a year of doing what you’re told, shooting who I tell you to shoot, and living the unglamorous life of the exiled rebel. Raise your hand if you think you can do that.”

Two of them exchanged wary looks, while the woman watched Jim intently, like she was trying to determine the veracity of his promise.

“Oh, and in case no one told you yet, Starfleet can’t reach you out here, implants or not. So don’t let your lieutenant try and scare you straight.”

At that, the officer snarled and tugged at his restraints. “Shut up. Don’t you dare listen to him. You all realise who he is, right?”

“Sure do,” the woman drawled, speaking for the first time. “Those blue eyes have been on every newscast since the war started. James Kirk, domestic and galactic terrorist.”

Jim’s mouth opened wordlessly, and even Spock felt a moment’s cold shock. How was it possible that they had almost forgotten the accusations left in their wake?

Oblivious to their hesitation, the lieutenant raged, “Then why the hell are you listening to him?!” He shouldered against the man next to him in his frustration. “You are members of Starfleet, and as such, you will afford this bastard nothing but the disgust he deserves until we can contact Imperial authorities.”

“Yeah, trust me, that’s not gonna happen any time soon.” Jim sighed, rubbing his eyes like he was tired. “Look, it’s no skin off my nose if no one’s interested. I’ll just wait for the next auction –”

“I’ll do it.”

The woman spoke with surety, her voice only slightly tinged by desperation. Her companions turned to stare at her in surprise, but she ignored them. “I know my guns, and I don’t give a shit what you want me to do, so long as you take the chains off.”

Jim smiled, slow and satisfied. He stepped closer to her, visibly engaging what powers of persuasion his physicality offered him. Spock looked away.

“You’re seriously going with them?” one of the other conscripts hissed. “They could be lying!”

“I don’t care if they are. All I know is that, until five minutes ago, my future amounted to being some kind of… _sex toy_ for xenos, and now someone’s offering to cut me free and put a gun back in my hand.” She turned back to Jim, eyes wide and earnest. “So yeah, sign me up. I am very much with you.”

The lieutenant sneered. “You’re pathetic.”

“Screw you, Yates.”

The youngest conscript looked between them nervously. “I, uh… M-me too. I’m in. If you’ll have me. That is.”

Spock raised an eyebrow as he and Jim shared a sceptical look. “Have you ever successfully engaged in combat?” he asked. It was the first time he’d spoken in their presence, and all of the slaves looked taken aback. The boy he’d addressed didn’t seem to know where to set his gaze.

“I… I guess that would depend on how you defined ‘successful’. Sir.”

Yates scoffed, yanking at his ropes in anger.

Jim shot a grin at Spock. “Hey, he called you sir. Quick learner.”

The Vulcan tipped his head in silent agreement. “Alright, you’re in. Got one more space – first come, first serve.” He paced along the line of them, stopping in front of the two remaining conscripts. “Any takers?”

They were both older than Jim and looked none too happy to be propositioned by the young Terran. The one standing closest to Yates raised his chin aggressively. “They’re talking a whole lot about you back home, Kirk.”

He blinked in mild surprise before recovering his façade of nonchalance. “Oh yeah? All good, I hope.”

“Saying you took off on the ship that attacked Sol System, that you helped… _blow up_ a planet. People are calling you pirate and thief like it’s something cool.”

Spock was certain no one else noticed Jim’s hand clench nervously at his side. He wondered what the human thought about the false stories now attached to his name; whether he despised them or considered them an advantage.

Jim half laughed. “I will admit, ‘galactic space pirate’ definitely gets you a lot more action than ‘unemployed barfly’ – but then, most things will.”

The conscript’s mouth twisted with disdain, and before another word could be said, he spat sharply. Jim jerked his head aside, spittle on his cheek, and Spock was starting forward before he was even aware of the decision to move, outrage burning his blood. There was a clumsy scramble as the other slaves tried to step aside, tripping over the rope around their ankles.

Jim held up a hand to stop him before he could close. He wiped his face with his sleeve, nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Well. Goes without saying you’re out of the club.” He turned to the last man in line, all humour gone from his voice. “In or out?”

“In.”

“Good. Last warning: I spend my money on you, the three of you better be worth it. I’m not above selling you for a refund if you’re not.”

Jim flicked his hood back into place, then moved to pound his fist against the door. It was opened and one of the guards glanced fleetingly inside before withdrawing. A count of twenty passed, then the auctioneer was striding through the door.

“I trust all is in order? Did you find what you were looking for?”

“These three.” Jim indicated the ones they had chosen, and the Orion gestured for his men to detach them from the others.

“Tattoos and brands are included in the price. Collars and cuffs are extra.”

Jim hesitated for a second, then shook his head. “It’s fine. Uh, thanks.”

The auctioneer sighed. “You’ve never done this before, have you? Markings are most of what keeps them from running. Escaped slaves aren’t looked kindly upon.”

 

Jim looked back at his three newly purchased humans. “They’re not going to want to run,” he said simply.

He intended to offer them purpose, even a measure of respect – which, on Alpha, were indeed hard things to come by. And undoubtedly, for a number of them, such an arrangement would be more than satisfactory. Still, Spock did not quite share Jim’s wholehearted conviction that the former conscripts could be made entirely trustworthy without some kind of enforcement. They’d already taken the opportunity to abandon their affiliation with Starfleet – there was really very little preventing them from doing the same thing again if a better option presented itself. If Jim wished to forego physical marks of ownership, so be it – but Spock did not intend to let them go completely untested. He didn’t relish the task that fell to him, but if they really intended to bring potential threats into their camp, then it was a necessary requirement. Even Jim could not deny that.

 

* * *

 

 

“Please stop the car.”

Squinting against the warm wind, Jim glanced across at him. “Why, what’s wrong?”

Spock didn’t answer, but continued to stare at the Terran implacably until Jim relented and the vehicle slowed. The engine stilled, and Spock took a breath to brace himself. He still disliked doing this, and had become no more acclimatised to the act in all his time working for Vek. He removed his gloves.

“What are you doing?”

“I do not intend to allow these strangers to return with us if they pose a danger, and that is an assessment which must fall to me.”

He twisted around, rising to his knees and bracing against Jim’s seat. The conscripts were squeezed shoulder to shoulder in the back of the vehicle, hands still bound securely behind them. They looked scared under his sudden attention.

“Wh-what’s he gonna do?” the boy in the middle demanded.

Jim sighed, drumming his hands against the dashboard. “He’s going to make sure I didn’t just make a mistake,” he answered, sounding resigned. “Don’t worry - he’s gotten loads better. Hardly anyone’s brain gets melted anymore.”

“You are alarming them needlessly,” Spock chided. “This… should not hurt.”

He did not draw the matter out any longer than necessary, reaching out and pressing his fingers lightly to the older male’s cheek and forehead. Immediately he felt the hostility beneath the surface of his mind. At first he thought it was directed at himself, but closer examination revealed that the anger was mostly without direction; it was consumptive and indiscriminate. Spock found that strangely reassuring. They could easily take such hatred and shape it to their purposes; aim it like a weapon at the enemy ranks.

He withdrew, releasing the man without comment.

Next was the adolescent.

The boy’s primary motivation was fear – but Spock had known that already. He must have been barely of legal age when he’d been conscripted, and most of his memories after that moment were a confused amalgamation of terror and grief and guilt. He felt untethered, thrown adrift by the chaos of the war. Jim’s cocksure confidence and humour had come like a balm, and the promise of control and instruction held nothing but relief. Already the seed of deep-rooted loyalty had been planted.

Spock released him with an approving nod.

Then his attention settled on the woman. She pressed back against her seat, face set hard against him.

“Tell him not to. I don’t want him in my head.”

“Not exactly a debatable issue,” Jim drawled, picking at a speck on the steering wheel. “Sorry.”

Spock took that as all the permission he needed, reaching out and making contact. He quickly pressed into her mindspace, sweeping aside the natural barriers she threw up in response. He was gaining skill, he realised distantly. Only a few months ago such a task would have required no small amount of effort. Now it was becoming familiar; an instinctive enforcement of his will.

He filtered through her thoughts, searching for the recent memories which would best explain her motivations. There was truth in her claim of unwilling conscription; still near the forefront of her mind were the recollections of pain and panic as the tracking chip was injecting into her. But something was different. He had expected a similar story to his own and Jim’s, even the other two slaves. Conscripts were usually chosen from the lower echelons of Terran society; the unemployed, the impaired, the criminal. But as Spock travelled deeper into her memories, he encountered images which unsettled him. She wore the white, crisp coat of a scientist, and stood surrounded by what he had to assume was a state of the art laboratory. She commanded there, her expertise evident. Glass and metal and computer screens; weapons fired into test targets. Further forward: clad in the blue uniform of a science officer aboard a Starfleet ship. Blue, not the red of conscription. She moved and conversed with other officers, Yates among them, clearly their equal.

Spock gave a mental snarl, infuriated by the lie, and felt her quail around him. It was a trap, a trick. She intended to betray them.

He hurtled along the pathways of her thoughts yet again, ruthless in his search this time. He would need to know how she had managed to place herself so fortuitously, and what exactly she knew of them.

Images of himself, Jim, Nyota, Doctor McCoy and Lieutenant Scott broadcast on newscasts all over Terra. They had indeed been branded renegades, pirates, terrorists. Most of Sol System must think them solely responsible for the loss of a planet, from the account of their crimes which had been publically released. But this woman was privy to Starfleet records, and knew the reality of what had happened – at least most of it. She had stood on a city street looking up at the holovid screen mounted atop the buildings, seeing their faces, knowing the truth. Thinking Jim had pretty eyes.

Spock ripped away from the memory, tearing further forward in time to scrutinise her most recent experiences. The _ISS Prometheus_ was being bombarded by Klingon torpedoes, disintegrating around her. She was typing commands rapidly into a computer, trying to orchestrate a counter-attack, but then the shields were down and they were boarded. Next came screaming, as hostile forces pressed inside the ship, and she was one among few they took alive.

The subsequent series of events had not been pleasant, and certainly not planned.

Still, that did not necessarily mean anything of significance. She was still effectively a ranking officer of Starfleet, conscription implant or not. She knew the truth of them, but was pretending ignorance. Such deception was impossible to ignore.

He pulled back from her, returning to reality to find Jim grasping his shoulder. The woman fell back from him as soon as she was able, blood streaming from her nose at the pressure he’d exerted. The remaining slaves watched with horrified expressions.

Spock had the particle gun in hand before anyone could say a word, aiming it steadily at her forehead.

“Lieutenant Carol Marcus is a liar.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Stardate 2255.289.**

**Sif System.**

**Sif Alpha.**

 

The wheels of the car sprayed up red dust as they came to an inelegant, jerky stop outside of their makeshift camp. Their voices, raised in disagreement, broke through the desert stillness. At the commotion, the tarp over the cave entrance was thrown open and Nyota and McCoy strode into view, clearly expecting attack. Nyota had a knife in each hand, and the doctor was holding what looked like an unwieldy length of scrap metal pipe.

When it became apparent that it was only Jim and Spock, and that their new purchases were still safely under control, the pair slumped with relief and vague embarrassment. McCoy propped himself up with the pipe, smoothing down his hair and adjusting his eyepatch, while Nyota secreted away the blades and tried subtly to pull her shirt sleeve back into place.

Jim was the first out of the car, stalking around the front of the vehicle with gun in hand. He’d had to take it back, fearful of what would happen otherwise.

The Vulcan was quick behind him. “Jim, she attempted to conceal the truth of both her status and affiliation with Starfleet - a deception which would indeed have gone undiscovered, due to your naive willingness to take these three captives at their word alone.”

“I wasn’t being naive at all! I knew you could check out their stories -”

“Then you should have asked me to do so before purchase! As things stand, a third of our credit has now been squandered on a useless investment.”

They reached Nyota and McCoy, who were listening to the exchange with varying degrees of annoyance and concern. Nyota folded her arms.

“I take it the ‘useless investment’ in question is one of our new...” She paused, evidently hesitating over how to address the three slaves. “...guests? Why, what happened?”

“I have discovered she is a Starfleet officer,” Spock answered promptly. “And as we are now among the most wanted criminals in the Empire, justly so or otherwise, she is nothing but a liability to us. She cannot be allowed to remain here.”

“Well what do you expect me to do?” Jim demanded. “You really think the slave trader is in the business of giving refunds?!”

“We might have sold her elsewhere for at least a portion of our credit back, as you yourself suggested, but seeing as you insisted we return here with her, that is now highly dangerous. She could reveal our location to any number of enemies.”

“She’s a _human_ that we just _bought_ , Spock. We can’t get rid of her like a faulty gadget!”

“Would you be as adamant in this matter if she were xeno?”

“ _Bullshit_ , now is not the time for your fucking alien insecurities!”

“In any regard, I see no viable alternative course of action.” McCoy swiped his hands through the air, calling a momentary halt to the debate. “Hold up now - is he suggesting what I think he is?” When no one bothered to deny the implication, the doctor’s face screwed up with incredulity. “Christ, this has gotten out of hand. I wasn’t on board with this travesty to begin with, I’m sure as hell not going to stand by and watch you execute a woman you just declared your damn slave!”

“But that is precisely my point,” Spock argued. “She is not a slave. She is an agent, a potential assassin. To use an archaic metaphor which might appeal to you, she is the viper in our midst. How else does one deal with such a threat when release is no longer an option?”

“Good God man, I knew you had ice water in you veins, but _this_ -”

“This is hardly a task I relish the idea of, Doctor, but the fact remains it is a necessary one. I will do what is needed if no one else is willing.”

McCoy looked like he was about to have an aneurysm, and Spock wasn’t helping matters by merely quirking an eyebrow. Jim was expecting to have to separate them any moment, but Nyota chose that moment to cock her head to one side, frowning as she peered over Jim’s shoulder.

“Uhm.”

They turned to look back at the car.

The teenager and the older guy were craning their necks to look behind them, as Lieutenant Carol Marcus disappeared steadily into the darkness beyond their camp, making a decent attempt at sprinting even with her hands bound behind her back.

“Fuck’s _sake_!”

Jim took off running after her, scrambling across the infirm terrain. She was fast, moving in zigzags as she threw harried glances back over her shoulders, so that he was forced to skid and slip after her, no doubt making a thorough show of himself in the process.

Still, detained as she was, it wasn’t a great distance before he caught her. He crashed into her and she hit the ground rolling, managing to plant a firm kick to his stomach before he could get a firm enough grip on her. Hurting, winded and infuriated, he grabbed her upper arm and hauled her to her feet. Then, before she could think of doing anything else, he ducked down and tipped her over his shoulder, securing a hold around the back of her knees to keep her in place. She immediately screamed and snarled protest, doing her best to kick him again, or at least twist free. He set off marching back towards camp.

“Stop it. I thought we had a deal.”

“We did until your friend started planning my execution!”

“Relax, that’s not going to happen. If nothing else, I just spent _way_ too much credit not to at least get some use out of you...”

No one seemed particularly impressed by his return. Spock looked as close to furious as he ever came, and McCoy’s expression was thunderous. Nyota just rubbed her temple like she was getting a migraine.

Jim dumped the woman unceremoniously into the sand, where she promptly kicked his shin.

“To reiterate,” Spock said blandly, “keeping her alive is clearly impractical.”

“I’m not going to be a part of this,” the doctor protested, shaking his head in grim protest.

“Then go watch the other two,” Jim snapped. This had all quickly gotten more out of control than he could have anticipated, and he couldn’t deny sharing the same vague squeamishness about dispatching a woman he’d just _bought_. But even so, he didn’t need the other man undermining anything that was decided from this point onwards.

McCoy cast one final disgusted glare between them, and then stalked away towards the car, leaving the three of them at a stand off.

“...And you’re _completely sure_ she’s an officer?” Nyota asked eventually, seemingly at a loss.

“I am.”

“No, I’m not!”

They all looked down at her, surprised by the protest.

“Well, I mean... I _was_. But it didn’t _mean_ anything! I didn’t choose it!”

“I find it difficult to believe someone _accidentally_ appointed you an officer aboard a military warship,” Spock commented snidely.

“That’s not what I’m saying!”

“You need not say another word, given that the truth of your thoughts has already betrayed you.”

Jim rubbed his eyes. He needed to hit pause on all of this – if only so that the Vulcan didn’t pop a little green blood vessel. Emotion was beginning to leak into his voice and gestures, which was a surer sign than any that he was more outraged than Jim had initially realised.

“Yota, help me get her inside,” he said, nodding towards the cave. “You stay with her while we… calmly discuss what to do.”

She snorted sceptically, and Spock’s expression turned glacial. Jim resigned himself with a sigh to another battle of wills.

 

* * *

 

 

The next problem came when it quickly became apparent that no one knew exactly what to _do_ with their new... companions. Recruits. Slaves. Whatever they were.

At Spock’s insistence, the former Lieutenant Marcus was confined to their cave, still bound and not to be left without supervision. Nyota did as he’d asked and stayed with her, though the Vulcan himself hovered close by, seemingly reluctant to trust anyone else with the duty. Jim supposed it was a better compromise than execution, though for the life of him he couldn’t imagine how the situation could end well.

But then there were the other two.

In the somewhat chaotic aftermath of their purchase, he hadn’t really given much thought to what he was going to do with them. He could hardly trust them blindly right away, but nor was leaving them trussed and captive a sustainable solution - not if he he wanted them to cooperate, anyway.

So, leaving the Vulcan to his angry vigil just inside the cave entrance, Jim stepped outside to the car. McCoy was sitting in the front seat, gesticulating a little too enthusiastically as he told some story or other, so that the little bottle of clear alcohol he was drinking from splashed its contents out into the sand.

“Entertaining the guests?” Jim quipped as he passed by.

“I don’t imagine they’re particularly entertained by the sorry tale of how I got saddled with you and the hobgoblin, but _I’m_ sure as hell finding it therapeutic.”

He was right, if the semi-desperate looks they cast Jim’s way were anything on which to judge. Smiling, he moved round to the back of the vehicle, popping open the trunk. Humans weren’t the only thing they’d bought in Alpha.

He rifled through the pile of weaponry stashed there, none of it as modern as the models they’d become accustomed to. Spock, Nyota and McCoy had already armed themselves, but there were plenty of spares. He selected a phaser, tucking it into the back of his belt beside his own particle gun, and a little pen-knife went into his pocket. He also lifted out the stack of extra coats and clothing they’d acquired, and as he walked back towards McCoy, he dumped it all in the back seat for the two former slaves.

“Thank you,” the teenager said, earnestly enough that Jim almost felt guilty.

He braced his hip against the driver door, folding his arms as he regarded them. “So you guys have names, or...?”

They exchanged glances, then the older of the two grunted. “Why don’t you ask your Vulcan? Seems like he’s got no issues rummaging around our heads for whatever he wants to know.”

“Well you’re right about that,” Jim admitted freely, earning an eyebrow raise from the doctor. But he knew when he was being probed for weaknesses, and showing any kind of reticence about Spock’s abilities would only invite trouble. “Still, thought I’d be polite and ask.”

“Hn. Jackson.”

“Nice to meet you, Jackson. Let’s hope we get off to a better start than your friend.”

“She’s not our friend,” he said, shrugging. “We never had much to do with the officers. Would have told you if we’d known.”

“Good to know.” “What... Uh, what’s going to happen to her?” the teenager asked hesitantly, flicking a nervous glance up at Jim’s face. Once again it occurred to Jim the surreal weight of reputation he carried now.

“I don’t know yet,” he answered honestly, scratching the stubble on his jaw. “Guess we’ll see. Name?”

“Oh, uh, Daniel.”

“How old are you exactly?”

“Seventeen.”

McCoy snorted loudly, swigging from his bottle. “Oh good, he’s seventeen.”

Jim ignored him. “You ever shoot a gun?”

The kid looked down at his lap, embarrassed and maybe even a little scared. “Not really. Does that... make a difference?”

Jim restrained a sigh. They really hadn’t picked out the best possible options back at the auction. He supposed they’d just have to make the most of it.

He opened the rear car door, beckoning for the teenager to get out. Wide-eyed and pale, Daniel climbed out and stood next to him, obviously not knowing what to expect. Jim took him by the shoulder and turned him round, pulling out the pen-knife and using it to saw quickly through the ropes which held the boy. Freed, he spun round in surprise, rubbing his wrists and watching Jim with a kind of wary wonder.

“Come on.”

Jim turned and walked a few paces from the car, listening for the soft footsteps behind him. He stood for a moment surveying the environment, then pointed out into the darkness. “That rock.”

“What about it?”

He took the phaser from his belt, checked the setting, then held it out in offering. “Shoot it.”

“...You’re just giving me a weapon?”

“Said I would, didn’t I? Take it. Show me what you got.”

Ever so carefully, the teenager’s fingers closed around the butt of the gun. Jim watched his movements carefully. He didn’t think it likely, but if Daniel did decide to make any stupid decisions about turning on him, he figured he was fast enough to disarm him again. And on the remote chance he failed, he’d made sure Spock, Nyota and McCoy were all safely armed.

The kid held the thing like it was something foreign to him, anyway. Rolling his eyes slightly, Jim reached out and adjusted his grip, prodding his aim in the right direction.

“You were really Starfleet?”

“They didn’t like me much. I messed up a lot.”

“Yeah, well, so did I,” Jim muttered, for some reason reminded of the last time he’d seen Christopher Pike. “Come on, shoot.”

The teenager seemed to fire off a burst by accident, flinching from the heat and light, and managing only to send up a spray of sand twenty feet in front of them, nowhere near the rock he was supposed to be aiming for.

Jim chewed his lip, succeeding with impressive willpower not to hang his head in despair.

Behind him, McCoy chuckled scornfully.

 

* * *

 

 

Jim had never thought of himself as a teacher or a team builder - and as it turned out, there was undoubtedly good reason for that.

He felt profoundly awkward in his new role of tutor. It wasn’t like he’d ever had to pass on skills before. Hell, he hadn’t been particularly aware he even had skills to pass on, but apparently handling a gun was one of them. In all honesty, Jim had never put much conscious thought into it before now; every situation in which shooting had been necessary had been of the adrenaline-fuelled, over-in-seconds variety, and hitting his mark had always seemed like a matter of luck rather than anything else.

As it turned out, though, he was more of a natural than he’d thought.

Jackson wasn’t a bad marksman himself, as they found out when they finally gave him a gun (Spock looking on, tense and distrustful). Nyota took to shouting out random targets when they practised, and he and Jim competed over who could shoot the fastest and most accurately, even finding camaraderie in the game. Daniel, however, was less successful in the art. Jim picked and prodded at his posture, chose easier and easier targets each time, and still saw little that gave him any hope he was going to make a fighter of the kid.

They always took the guns back once practice ended, locking them securely in the car.

For the most part, the situation was awkward but workable. The pair weren’t ever left unsupervised, but neither argued over the matter. For lack of a better word, they seemed content with the situation. Mostly, they just asked an endless stream of questions about Alpha, the xenos living there, the war with the Empire, and the smaller scale war with Vek. Jim saw no harm in answering what he could, and so found himself recapping the events of the last few months to a riveted audience of two. It was strangely disconcerting, to find himself familiar and knowledgeable on such an alien political system. He noted they never asked about Vulcan, and whether he and the others had really committed the crimes of which they were accused. Nor did Jim volunteer the information.

Around the fourth day, Scotty got in touch via comm unit, reporting that everything was still relatively quiet at the colony and asking if they wanted supplies bought and delivered while security was low. Since they were starting to run low on food, Jim had said yes, but added an additional request: that the Scotsman take Daniel with him. He wanted the kid to at least glimpse the dangers of Alpha; to hopefully harden somewhat, as Jim and the others had been forced to do.

Better sooner than later.

 

* * *

 

 

Spock tipped his head, examining the human woman sitting in front of him. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable, he knew, but that had ceased to bother him. At some point she’d been repositioned so her hands were tied in front, and she sat cross-legged and scratching at the dirt in boredom. Her clothes were sand-encrusted and her hair had become oily in the days she’d been with them. Nyota had visited briefly perhaps half an hour ago, bringing food; the lieutenant had picked only morsels from the meal, rebuffing attempts at conversation. Presently, perhaps provoked by his attention, she flicked a scornful glance up at him, and Spock did not require the use of telepathy to detect the hatred behind her eyes. He blinked placidly in response.

The canvas across the entrance of the cave was abruptly snatched aside, surprising them both, and they turned to see Jim standing there.

“Good morning, you two.” He was wearing a smile, but something about the expression seemed insincere to Spock. It was too tight at the edges.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nope.”

“I am content to remain here with the lieutenant for several hours yet. You do not need -”

In a tone of equally false cheer, Jim spoke over him. “Don’t you both think this little stand-off has gone on long enough?” He flicked a determined glance over both Spock and the woman. “I’m thinking it’s time we came to an agreement, one way or another.”

“Jim -”

The Terran clapped him on the shoulder, careless enough to almost brush the bare skin of his neck, and Spock was so startled by the contact he allowed his protest to fall quiet.

“Look, no one’s getting anything out of this situation. It’s a waste of resources, if nothing else.” He stepped past the Vulcan, moving towards Lieutenant Marcus.

She rose warily to her feet at his approach, bracing her back against the rock wall and watching him from behind locks of matted hair. She resembled a feral thing, poised to fight or flee at the first opportunity.

“Guess you’re not too happy with us anymore.”

She cast a baleful look towards Spock. “You want to kill me. I’d have been better off with the slavers.”

“I doubt it,” Jim commented sceptically. “Still, I suppose you have a valid grievance.”

“As do I,” Spock pointed out, coldly.

The Terran held up his hands as though brokering peace between them. “Alright, well here’s what we’re going to do. You,” he nodded towards Marcus, “get a chance to explain in vivid detail exactly why we should trust anything you say, and _you_ ,” he gestured to Spock, “get to examine any thought that crosses her mind until you’re satisfied. Agreed?”

“No!” she protested immediately. “He’s not getting in my head again, no way.”

Jim didn’t hesitate. “No agreement and I’m just going to let him do what he thinks is best. That might not work out so well for you.”

Spock wasn’t sure if the Terran would follow through on that promise, but it was evidently enough to convince the lieutenant. Her shoulders dropped with resignation.

“And if I decide she remains untrustworthy?” Spock prompted, curious to see if Jim would show willingness to listen to reason.

After a moment’s consideration, he nodded reluctantly. “Then I’ll take your word.”

Spock inclined his head, satisfied.

They lowered themselves to the ground in an approximate triangle formation. Jim and the lieutenant faced one another, and Spock reached out to touch his fingers carefully against her cheek and forehead, immediately opening up her thoughts for examination. They began to talk, and Spock furrowed his brow as he struggled to listen to their verbal conversation as well as parse the lieutenant’s mental reactions. Their voices sounded distant.

“Let’s try this again, then. You’re a Starfleet officer?” Jim began.

“Yes.”

Truth.

“For how long?”

“A few months. Since the war was declared and conscription started.”

“Not before?”

“No.”

There was a pause as Jim looked to Spock for confirmation. Without opening his eyes, the Vulcan nodded. That was also true.

“What were you doing before that?”

“I was a scientist.”

“Working on weapons?”

“Yes, for my father’s company.”

“What company is that?”

“Genesis Industries.”

“Never heard of it.”

She shrugged slightly, but a rush of images flashed past her mind’s eye: her father shaking hands in back rooms, documents signed in secret, steps taken to quash media attention and credit transfers concealed. No one but the right people were _supposed_ to have heard of it. That was the point.

“We were set up on a station in the Sierra Sector, near the edge of the Empire.”

“Why so far out from Sol?”

She hesitated, then shrugged a second time. “We weren’t exactly Imperial loyalists. We sold our products and our research to the highest bidders. Sometimes that was Starfleet, sometimes it... wasn’t.”

“And they let you get away with that?”

“There wasn’t much they could do. Protest too loudly and we could just refuse to sell to them, make our contract exclusive to their rivals. It worked the other way round, too - and no one could risk taking us out because our tech was too valuable. That, and retribution from the other side. Dad had it all figured out.”

“Nice. So what went wrong?”

She sighed, reaching up both hands to move strands of hair from her face. “The war. Isn’t that what went wrong everywhere?”

“From the sound of things, I would have thought it was a good opportunity.”

“So did we. Everything was set to be a perfect free-for-all to see who’d get to pay us the most credit.”

“I’m not seeing how this ends with you being a proud new member of Starfleet.”

“I was taking a ship to meet some clients on Memory Alpha and one of the Starfleet patrol ships haled us for a so-called routine check. Next thing we knew they were on board.”

They’d come straight for her, Spock saw; grim-faced men streaming through the corridors in search of her.

“Said I needed to do my duty to my Empire,” she recalled. “Stabbed me with an implant before I could do anything.”

Jim visibly winced, perhaps remembering his own conscription. He’d never spoken of the matter, given the events which had transpired immediately after, but Spock could only imagine it had been an unpleasant experience for someone as rebellious of control as Jim.

She gave a reluctant, unhappy smile in response. “Not much I could do after that. Or Dad, for that matter.”

“They conscripted you to pressure him,” Jim realised. “So he couldn’t sell to anyone but Starfleet.”

“Got it in one.”

Spock could see the truth of it in her head, but it made him no happier with the situation. By her own admission, she and her father had been professional manipulators until circumstances had forced their hand; he could not do away with the suspicion that those same skills were being employed in weaving her current tale.

But if Jim sensed the same thing from her, he was not protesting. He studied her intently, but with interest rather than scepticism. Nor was his attention unrequited. As though she had almost forgotten Spock’s surveillance of her thoughts, she had dismissed him entirely, and her emotions rose and fell solely in response to Jim. Even now, regardless of her predicament, she was attracted to him.

Annoyance flared in the Vulcan, then ignited to true anger. He struggled to stifle his own reactions as their conversation continued.

“I’ve got no love for Starfleet. I’m only here because they wanted Genesis under heel. I was made an officer because I have more skills than the average conscript, but I’m no more free. For all intents and purposes, I’ve been a prisoner of war since all this began.”

Jim seemed to consider. He cast a cursory glance at Spock for confirmation that it was all true, and for just a second the Vulcan considered lying. It was well within his power to denounce her a second time, and he was inexplicably tempted. It would certainly put an end to the risk which came with trusting her. He wondered what Jim would do if he voiced the accusation; which side he would take. Irrationally, it was something he desired to test.

“Spock?”

The Vulcan dropped his hand, severing the connection. “As far as I can determine, everything is as she says.”

Jim nodded in acknowledgement and stood up, brushing dirt from the knees of his jeans. A head tilt beckoned Spock to follow him, and together they stepped outside.

 

* * *

 

 

“You have decided to keep her,” were the Vulcan’s first words upon leaving the cave, laced with disapproval.

Jim briefly cast his eyes skyward before turning to face him. “You said it yourself – she’s told us everything now, right?”

“I cannot be entirely sure of that. Only that what she has said is… accurate.”

“Spock, I just gave you the chance to snoop around her brain for anything you wanted, and you still can’t give me one solid, objective, unbiased reason not to trust her? Yeah, sorry, we’re keeping her.”

The Vulcan looked unhappy, as though he really wanted to continue his protest but couldn’t think of a logical enough argument.

Jim sighed. “Look, dislike her all you want, I’m not stopping you. But even you have to admit that having the daughter of a major player on our team has got to prove useful. Whatever this Genesis Industries is, Starfleet wanted it badly enough to play dirty.”

“Be that as it may, it may surprise you to learn that we are in no position to utilise a galactic weapons company. Any advantage you imagine she brings with her is essentially useless.”

Jim glared in the face of his cynicism. “Well, even so,” he added irritably, “she’s got skills. We can use _her_ , at least.”

Spock opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of an approaching engine alerted them both. They turned, squinting into the night at the approaching headlights. A short distance away, Nyota and Jackson did the same, hands held ready on their weapons.

They relaxed with the realisation that it was only Scotty.

He stopped his car in the middle of them all, hopping out. Bundled in layers of coats and a wool hat, he reminded Jim of when they’d first met the engineer back on Delta Vega. Daniel climbed out behind him, and the Scotsman promptly dragged him close with an arm around the shoulders, grinning broadly. He clapped the boy hard on the chest, winding him a little.

“Oy Captain Perfect Hair, you’ve been holding out on me - lad’s a wee genius at haggling! I’m never leaving home without him again. Just bought more engine oil than I know what to bloody do with!”

Daniel flushed as all eyes landed on him, but looked undeniably pleased with himself.

Jim smiled tiredly. So the teenager could be of _some_ use to him, after all.


End file.
